
;;•;! !:,m:' 







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SELECT' WORKS 



OF THE 



POE 



3 3^ 



IN 



7 yd/ 



A CHRONOLOGICAL SERIES FROM SOUTHEY 

TO CROLY: 



WITPI 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 



CESIGNrD AS A COiS'TIA-UATION 0? 



DE. AIKIFS BRITISH POETS. 



nilLALELnilA : 
A. HART, LATE CAREY & HART, 

No. 126 CHESTNUT STREET. 

1850. 



;=!J 






$ 



Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins. 

BY TRANSFER 






ADVERTISEMENT. 



This Volume is a continuation of the series of British Poets, of whicl 
the First Volume in the chronological order was compiled by Dr. Southey 
and includes the Poets from Chaucer to Ben Jonson ; the Second, by Dr. 
AiKiiNT, includes those from Jonson- to Beattiej the Third, by the compilei 
of the present Volume, comprises those from Falconer to Scott. This Volume, 
the Fourth, begins with Southey and ends with Croly. One more Volume 
will complete the series. 

The original plan of giving entire Poems, instead of extracts and mutilations, 
has been adhered to throughout; and intrinsic merit, so far as it has been 
understood by the compiler, ha§>]5'ee'f(jiiiadBthV^round of selection. 

The Biographical Notices are copied with slight variations from Mrs. S. 0. 
Hall's "Book of Gems." 



CO NTENTS. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

A. Tale of Paraguay : 

Uedication— To Edith May Southey . i . 10 

Proem 11 

Canto I. 11 

II 15 

III 20 

IV 25 

English Eclogues : 

I. The Old Mansion House ... 31 

II. The Grandmother's Tale .... 32 

III. Hannah 33 

IV. The Sailor's Mother . . .- . 34 
V. Tho Witch 35 

VI The Ruined Cottage . ... . .37 

VII. The Last of the Family .... 38 

VIII. The Wedding 39 

IX. The Alderman's Funeral ... 41 

Ode on the Portrait of Bishop Heber ... 42 

God's Judgment on a V/icked Bishop . . 44 

King Heary V. and the Hermit of Ureux . . 45 
01.1 Christoval's Advice, and the Reason why he 

gave it 1 46 

Cornelius Agrippa. A Ballad .... 47 

King Charlemain ...... 47 

St. Romuald 49 

The Inchcape Rock 50 

The Well of St. Keyne 51 

Bishop Bruno 52 

The Battle of Blenheim 53 

The Old Woman of Berkeley. A Ballad . . 54 

The March to Moscow 56 



CHARLES LAMB. 



Poems : — 

Hester 

To a River in which a Child was drowned 

Queen Oriana's Dream 

A Farewell to Tobacco 

A Ballad, noting the Vv'ays of the Rich and Poor 

To T. L. H., a Child 

Lines on the celebrated Picture by Leonardo da 
Vinci, called the Virgin of the Rocks 

The Gipsey's P.Ialison 

Ballad. From the German .... 
Sonnets : — 

I. To Miss Kelly 

II. On the Sight of Swans in Kensington 

Garden 

ni. "Was it some sweet device of Faery," 
IV. "Msthinks how dainty sweet it were, 
reclin'd," ...... 

V. " When last I roved these winding wood- 
walks green," 

VI. " A timid grace sits trembling in her eye," 

VII. "If from my lips some angry accents fell," 

VIII. The Family Name .... 

IX. To John Lamb, Esq., of the South-Sea 

House 

Blank Verse : — 
Composed at Midnight 



Page 

The Gran dame 64 

Ci'.ildhood 65 

Fancy employed on Divine Subjects . . 65 

The Sabbath Bells 65 

Miscellaneous : — 

On an Infant dying as soon as born . . 65 
To J. S. Knowles, Esq., on his Tragedy of Vir- 

ginius 66 

To the Editor of the Every-day Book . . 68 
" O lift with reverent hand that tarnished 

flower," 66 

Translations from the Latin of Vincent Bourne : — 

On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping 66 

On a Deaf and Dumb Artist .... 67 

The Housekeeper 67 



JAMBS HOGG. 

Songs : — 

The Soldier's Widow 69 

The Flower 69 

Lord Eglinton's Auld M«n 69 

Bonny Mary . 69 

My BIythe and Bonny Lassie .... 70 

The Braes of Bushby 70 

The Hay-makers 70 

Bauldy Fraser 71 

Scotia's Glens 71 

The Emigrant 72 

Highland Harry back again .... 72 



THOMAS MOORE. 

Letter I. From Alciphron at Alexandria to Cleon 

at Athens 74 

Letter II. From the Same to the Same . . 7G 

Letter HI. From the Same to the Same . . 76 

Letter IV. From the Same to the Same . . 82 

Letter V. From Orcus, High Priest of Blemphis, to 

Decius, the Prretorian Prefect ... 85 

Intercepted Letters, or the Two-penny Post Bag: 87 

Letter I. From the Pr-nc-ss Ch e of W— s to 

the Lady B-rb— a A— shl— y ... S3 

Letter II. From Colonel M'M-h-n to G— Id Fr-n- 

c-s L-ckie, Esq. 89 

Letter 111. From G. R. to the E of Y . UO 

Letter IV. From the Rt. Hon. P-tr-ck U-g-n-n 

to the Rt. Hon. Sir J-hn N-cii-1 . . 91 

Letter V. From the Countess Dowager of C 

to Lady 01 

Letter VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mo- 

hassan, in ls|)ahan 92 

Letter VH. From Messrs. L-ck-gt-n & Co. to 

, Esq 93 

Letter VIII. From Colonel Thomas, to 

, Esq 84 

Irish Melodies : — 
" Go where Glory waits thee," .... 95 
" Oh ! breathe not his name," ... 95 

"The Harp that once through Tara's Halls" 95 

"Fly not yet," 96 

'• Rich and rare were the gems she wore," . 96 

(5) 



CONTENTS. 



The Meeting of the Waters . . . . 
The Legacy . • . . • • • 

Eveleen's Bower 

"Let Erin remember the days of old," 
"Believe me, if all those endearing young 

charms," . . . • ' • 

Before the Battle 

After the Battle 

The Origin of the Harp 

Love's Young Dream 

"Lesbia hath a beaming eye," . . . . 
"She is far from the land," .... 
" 'Tis the last rose of Summer," 
" Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our 

own," 

"Farewell! but, whenever you welcome the 

hour," 

" Come o'er the Sea," 

" Has Sorrow thy young days shaded V 

'• My gentle Harp !" 

"Remember thee !" 

Echo 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Gebir : 

First Book 

Second Book 

Third Book 

Fourth Book 

Fifth Book 

Sixth Book 

Seventh Book 

Giinlaug . . . . . . . . 

Miscellaneous Poems : — 

Clifton . "• 

To lanthe 

Fas-sulan Idyl 

Progress of Evening 

Sixteen 

To Corinlh 

To Fortune 

Dorothea 

Rose Aylmer 

On a Child 

Friendship 

The Country Girl 

The Shell 

An Arab to his Mistress 



99 



103 
104 
106 
109 
111 
113 
114 
110 

121 
121 
121 
122 
122 
122 
122 
122 
123 
123 
123 
123 
123 
124 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Gertrude of Wyoming: 

Part I 

II 

Ill 

Theodric, a Domestic Tale 
Miscellaneous Poems : — 

O'Connor's Child; or, the Flower of Lovelies 
Bleeding 

Ye Mariners of England. A Naval Ode 

Hohenlinden 

Exile of Erin 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 

The Soldier's Dream 

To the Rainbow . 

The Last Man . 

Ode to Winter 

Reullura . 

The Turkish Lady 

The Wounded Hussar 

The Brave Roland 

The Spectre Boat. A Ballad 

Gilderoy .... 

The Ritter Bann 

Song 

The Beech-trce's Petition 



Hallowed Ground 

Caroline. Part I. . . . 

Part II. To the Evening Star 
Field Flowers .... 



Pago 

. 162 

153 

. 153 

154 

Dirge of Wallace 154 

The Friars of Dijon. A Tale . ... 155 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Poems written before the publication of Clifton 
Grove : — 

Ciiildhood. Part 1 158 

Part II. . LW 

The Fair Maid of Clifton. A New Ballad in the 

Old Style 161 

Winter Song 162 

To the Wind at Midnight . ... . .163 

Thanatos 163 

Athanatos 163 

Ode to the Harvest Moon .... 164 
The Eve of Death. Irregular . . . .104 

Clifton Grove, and other Poems : — 

To my Lyre. An Ode . . . . . 165 

Clifton Grove. A Sketch in Verse . . . 165 

Gondoline. A Ballad 169 

Ode. To the Genius of Romance . . . 172 

Sonnet 1"2 

To Contemplation 172 

Description of a Summer's Eve . , . 174 



LORD BYRON. 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A Romaunt: 

To lanthe 

Canto I 

II 

Ill 

IV 

Manfred. A Dramatic Poem .... 
The Prophecy of Dante : • 

Dedication 

Canto I 

II 

Ill 

IV 

The Age of Bronze ; or, Carmen Seculars et An- 
nus haud Mirabilis . . : . . 

The Lament of Tasso 

Hebrew Melodies : — 

Jephtha's Daughter 

Vision of Belshazzar 

Miscellaneous Poems : — 
Ode to Napoleon Bounaparte .... 

The Dream 

To Thyrza 

Stanzas 

To Thyrza 

Euthanasia 

To a Lady Weeping 

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound- 
land Dog 

To Miss Chaworth 

To Miss Chaworth 

To Augusta 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 

Songs : — 

"Let Idlers despair," . 

Free Trade 

"Like a rootless rose or lily," 

"Ye Wintry Flowers," . 

" The Day was dark," . 

Artisans' Out-door Ilymn 
Miscellaneous Poems : — 

The Wonders of the Lane . 

The Dying Boy to the Sloe Blossom 



176 
176 

180 
196 
208 
225 

241 
241 
242 
244 

245 

247 
253 

256 
256 

256 

258 _ 

259 

260 

260 

261 

261 

261 
261 
262 
262 



265 
265 
265 

265 
265 
266 

266 
267 



CONTENTS 



A Poel's Epitaph 268 

To the Bramble Flower 268 

JOHN WILSON. 

The City of the Plague 270 

The Convict 314 

Miscellaneous Poems : — 

The Scholar's Funeral . . . . . 328 

To a Sleeping Child 332 

Address to a Wild Deer, in the Forest of Dal- 

ness, Glen-Etive, Argyllshire . . . 333 

A Lay of Fairy-land 336 

The Widow 338 

Hymn to Spring 339 

Lord Ronald's Child 341 

The Angler's Tent 342 

The Fairies. A Dream-like Remembrance of a 

Dream 343 

Lines written on reading the Memoirs of Miss 

Elisabeth Smith 2^1 

Edith and Nora. A Pastoral Poet's Dream . 353 

The Tliree Seasons of Love .... 357 

My Cottage 357 

Loughrig Tarn ....... 359 

Mary . 360 

Lines written at a little Well by the Road-side, 

Langdale 361 

The De 'olate Village. First Dream . . 362 

Second Dream: Bessy Bell and Mary Gray . 363 

Third Dream: The Departure . . . S64 
Lines wrilten on seeing a Picture by Bergliem, 

of an Ass in a Storm-shower .... 3f6 

Prayer to Sleep 367 

Melrose Abbey 307 

Bonnet. The Evening Cloud .... 368 

Sonnet. Written on Skiddaw, during a Tempest 368 

The Magic Mirror 368 

The Children's Dance 371 

Edderline's Dream 375 

BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR. 
(Bakry Cornwall.) 
Dramatic Scenes : 

The Two Dreams . . . . ' . , 379 

Ludovico Sforza 382 

Lysander and lone 387 

Juan 389 

Love Cured by Kindness 303 

The Way to Conquer 398 

Werner '.401 

The Return of Mark Antony . . . .403 

The Broken Heart 406 

- Julian the Apostate 410 

Amelia Wentworth 415 

The Rape of Proserpine 420 

The Falcon 422 

Tartarus 426 

A Sicilian Story • . 4.32 

Diego de Montilla. A Spanish Tale . . .437 

Gyges 444 

Marcian Colonna. In Three Parts : 

Part 1 447 

II 452 

III 456 

HENRY HART MILMAN. 

Samor, Lord of the Bright City. An Heroic Poem : 

Book 1 463 

II . .467 

III 471 

IV 476 

V 482 

VI 487 

VII 493 

VIH. 502 



Page 

Book IX 509 

X 514 

XI 517 

XII 526 

Miscellaneous Poems : 
The Belvidere Apollo. A Prize Poem, recited 

in the Theatre, Oxford, in the year 1812 . 5Z0 

The Merry Heart 530 

The Love of God. Two Sonnets ... 531 
Deborah's Hymn of Triumph . . . 531 
Downfall of Jerusalem. From the Book of Je- 
remiah 532 

Hymns for Cliurch Service : 

Second Sunday in Advent 533 

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany , . , 533 

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany .... 533 

Quinquagesima 533 

Second Sunday in Lent 534 

Sixth Sunday in Lent 534 

Good Friday 534 

Sixth Sunday after Trinity .... 534 

Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity .... 535 

Seventeenth Sunday after Trinity . . . 535 

Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity . , . 535 

Twentieth Sunday after Trinity ... 535 

PERCY BYSSflE SHELLEY. 

Adonais. An Elegy on the Death of John Keats 537 
Miscellaneous Poems : — 
Lines vs'ritten among the Euganean Hills, Octo- 

tober, 1818, 542 

The Sensitive Plant 545 

Ode to the West Wind 548 

An Ode, written October, 1819, before the Spa- 
niards had recovered their liberty . . . 549 

Ode to Liberty 549 

Ode to Naples 552 

The Cloud 554 

To a Skylark 555 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty .... 556 
Mont Blanc. Lines written in the Vale of 

Charaouni 5.5(5 

The Fugitives 558 

A Lament 558 

The Pine Forest of the Cascine, near Pisa . 559 

To Night 560 

Mutability 560 

JOHN KEATS. 
Lamia : 

Part 1 562 

II 565 

Isabella ; or, the Pot of Basil. A Story from 

Boccaccio 56'' 

The Eve of St. Agneg 573 

Hyperion : 

Book 1 577 

II 579 

III .583 

Miscellaneous Poems : — 

To some Ladies, on receiving a curious Shell . 584 

Imitation of Spenser 584 

Ode to a Nightingale 584 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 585 

Ode to Psyche 586 

Fancy 5S6 

Ode 587 

Robin Hood. To a Friend . , 587 

To Autumn 588 

Ode on Melancholy 588 

LEIGH HUNT. 

Poems : 

Songs and Chorus of the Flowers . . . 500 

To a Child, during Sickness, .... 591 

The Glove and the Lions ..... S02 



CONTENTS. 



592 
593 



595 
595 
598 
596 
596 



The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit . 
Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

Poems : 
The Town and Country Child . 

Awake, my Love 

The Lass of Gleneslan-Mill . 

The Poet's Bridal-Day Song 

"A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," 

JOHN CLARE. 
Poems : 

Jane 598 

The Quiet Mind 598 

Ivlary Lee . 598 

July '. . 599 

A Summer Morning 599 

The Withered Tree 600 

THOMAS HOOD. 
Poems : 

To a Cold Beauty 602 

Ruth 602 

Ballad . . . .♦ 603 

"I remember, I remember," .... 602 

Ode • . 602 

Ballad 003 

A Retrospective Review 604 

Tom Woodgate 604 



FELICIA HEJyIANS. 

The League of the Alps; or, the Bleeting on the 

Field of Griitli 

Songs of the Cid : 

The Cid's Departure into Exile 

The Cid's Death-bed 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 

The Cid's Rising 
Records of Woman : 

Arabella Stuart 

The Bride of the Greek Isles . 

The Switzer's Wife 

Properzia Rossi 

Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death 

Iinelda 

Edith ; a Tale of the Woods 

The Indian City 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhine 

Indian Woman's Death-Song . 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims 

Pauline 

Juana 



The American Forest Girl 
Costanza .... 
Madeline. A Domestic Tale . 
The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 
The Memorial Pillar . . 
The Grave of a Poetess 
Miscellaneous Poems : — 
Bernardo del Carpio . 
The Treasures of the Deep . 
Bring Flowers .... 
England's Dead 
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
The Sound of the Sea . 
Casablanca 

The Homes of England 
The Captive Knight . 
The Minsier .... 
The Hour of Prayer . 
Washington's Statue . 
The Coronation of Inez de Castro 



610 
610 
fill 
612 

612 
615 
617 
619 
620 
621 
622 
624 
626 
627 
628 
629 
630 
631 
631 
633 
634 
634 
635 

636 
637 
637 
638 
638 
639 
639 
639 
640 
640 
640 
641 
641 



Faga 
642 
643 
643 
643 
644 
644 
644 
645 
645 
647 
647 
648 
648 
649 
650 
650 
650 
651 
651 
652 
653 
653 
654 



656 



671 
673 

674 
674 

675 
675 



The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother 

The Wreck . 

The Graves of a Household 

The Hour of Death 

Christ Stilling the Tempest 

The Sunbeam 

The Adopted Child . 

The Breeze from Land . 

Belshazzar's Feast . 

The Birds of Passage . 

Breathings of Spring 

The Spells of Home . 

The Song of Night . 

The Voice of the Wind 

The Better Land 

The Wakening 

Let us Depart ! . 

The Curfew Song of England 

The Dying Girl and Flowers 

Marguerite nf France . 

The English Boy 

Passing Away 

Dreams of Heaven 

CAROLINE NORTON. 
The Dream 

The Creole Girl; or, The Physician's Story 
Miscellaneous Poems : — 

"I cannot love thee," . . . . , 

The- Picture cf Sappho .... 

The Poet's Choice .... 

The Hunting-horn of Charlemagne 

To Ferdinand Seymour . . . 

The Mother's Heart 

The Blind Man's Bride 

The Fallen Leaves . . . . 



ROBERT POLLOK. 

The Course of Time : 

Book 1 679 

II 6S3 

III 6S9 

IV 699 

V , . . 705 

VI , . . 715 

VII 721 

VIII 727 

IX. 735 

X. . . . 745 

GEORGE CROLY. 
Poems : 

Pericles and Aspasia 752 

Lines written at Spithead 752 

Leoniilas 752 

The Death of Leonidas 752 

Illustrations of Napoleon : 

I. Napoleon at St. Helena. Suggested by 

Haydnn's Picture .... 753 

II. Napoleon, in his fall, to Cains Marius . 755 

HI. Napoleon at Austerlitz .... 755 

The Lily of the Valley 756 

The Artist's Chamber 756 

Lorenzo de' Medici 756 

Satan. From a Picture by Sir Thomas Law- 
rence 757 

Epitaph 757 

The Song of Antar. From the Arabic . . 757 

The Entry into Jerusalem .... 758 

The Painter 75S 

Rosolia 768 

Jacob's Dream. From a Picture by Allston . 159 

On the Ruins of Mesolonghi .... 759 

Rebellion . . 760 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Robert Southey was born in Bristol, on the 
12th of August, 1 774. Having given early tokens 
of that genius which has since placed his name 
foremost among British Worthies, his friends re- 
solved that the advantages of a hberal education 
should be added to those which Nature had be- 
stowed upon him, and sent him in 17S7, to West- 
minster School. In 1792, he was entered at Baliol 
College, Oxford. During his residence in the 
University, he became infected with Jacobinical 
principles ; but if some of his earher productions 
contributed to disseminate pernicious doctrines, he 
has amply compensated mankind by the labours 
of a long life in the cause of Virtue. In 1796, his 
first great poem, "Joan of Arc," appeared ; and 
his fame was completely estabhshed, when, in 
1S03, the romance of " Thalaba" issued from the 
press. He has since been continually before the 
world ; and there is scarcely a branch of hterature 
to which he has not contributed, — a list of his pub- 
lications would fill this page. In 1813, Southey 
accepted the office of Poet Laureat, on the death of 
Pye, — and for nearly the first time, during at least 
a century, the office, instead of conferring, re- 
ceived dignity. 

Southey is tall and handsome, with a clear and 
noble forehead; an aquiline nose ; a profusion of 
hair ; and uncommonly briglit eyes : his voice is 
musical, full of gentleness and persuasion, and his 
smile is as winning as it is sweet. His hair, once 
a curling and glossy black, curls still, but is as 
wliite as snow ; and his step has lost some of its 
elasticity, — but his eyes are as bright, and his 
' smile as winning, as ever. He is rarely seen in 
the great world. His distaste of the turmoils of 
life induced him to decline the offer of a seat in 
the House of Commons, to which he had been 
elected ; — apart from the bustle and feverish ex- 
citement of a city, he pursues his gentle and use- 
ful course from year to year : 

"And to his mountains and his forests rude 
Cliaunts in sweet melody his classic song." 

He has led the life of a scholar with as much 
steadiness of purpose and devotion, as if he had 
bound himself to his books by a religious vow. 
His works are sufficient to form a hbrary ; they are 
proofs of his amazing industry, not less than his 
vast and comprehensive learning. His wonderful 
2 



genius may excite our admiration; but the extent 
of his "profitable labour" is, indeed, prodigious. 
There is nothing like it we believe in the history 
of the human mind. His character is as unspot- 
ted as that of any public man — Uving or dead. 
The world is aware that he has had some ene- 
mies : no one ever deserved them less. His friends 
are numerous, devoted, and firm. No one ever 
earned them better, or merited them more : 
" We soon live down 
Evil or good report, if undeserved." 

His political opponents have tendered evidence to 
the estimable character of both his head and heart. 
One of the harshest arraigners of what he calls 
the inconsistency of Dr. Southey — as if that were 
inconsistency which induces to leave a path after 
it is known to be the wrong one — states, that " in 
all the relations and charities of private life, he is 
correct, exemplary, generous, just." He is one 
of the leading critics of the age ; and, ahhough 
there is abundant proof of his generous zeal in aid- 
ing young talent, there has never attached to him 
the suspicion of depressing h. The career of 
Southey is the best answer to the absurd, but too 
generally received opinion, that a critic is of neces- 
sity acrimonious or unjust. 

Of late years, the prose of Southey has been 
preferred to his poetry. It rarely happens that 
there is a preference without a disparagement. 
No Poet in the present or the past century, has 
written three such poems as Thalaba, Kchama, 
and Roderic. Others have more excelled in <?f- 
Uiieati9ig what they find before them in life; but 
none have given proof of such extraordinary power 
in creating. He has been called diffuse, because 
there is a spaciousness and amplitude about his 
poetry — as if concentration was the highest quality 
of a writer. He lays all his thoughts before us; 
but they never rush forth tumultuously. He ex- 
cels in unity of design and congruity of character ; 
and never did Poet more adequately express he- 
roic fortitude, and generous affections. He has 
not, however, liorited his pen to grand paintings 
of epic character. Among his shorter productions 
will be found some light and graceful sketches, 
full of beauty and feeling, and not the less valu- 
able because they invariably aim at promoting 
virtue. 

(9) 



10 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



DEDICATION. 
TO EDITH MAY SOUTHEY. 

1. 

Edith 1 ten years are number'd, since the day, 
Which ushers in the cheerful month of May, 
To us by thy dear birth, my daughter dear, 
Was blest. Thou therefore didst the name 

partake 
Of that sweet month, the sweetest of the year ; 
But fither was it given thee for the sake 
Of a good man, thy father's friend sincere. 
Who at the font made answer in thy name. 
Thy love and reverence rightly may he claim. 
For closely hath he been with me allied 
In friendship's holy bonds, from that first hour 
When in our youth we met on Tejo's side ; 
Bonds which, defying now all Fortune's power, 
Time hath not loosen'd, nor will Death divide. 

2. 
A child more welcome, by indulgent Heaven 
Never to parents' tears and prayers was given; 
For scarcely eight months at thy happy birth 
Had pass'd, since of thy sister we were left, — 
Our first-born and our only babe, bereft. 
Too fair a flower was she for this rude earth ! 
The features of her beauteous infancy 
Have faded from me, hke a passing cloud. 
Or like the glories of an evening sky : 
And seldom hath my tongue pronounced her 

name 
Since she was summon'd to a happier sphere. 
But that dear love, so deeply wounded then, 
I in my soul with silent faith sincere 
Devoutly cherish till we meet again. 

3. 

I saw thee first with trembling thankfulness, 
O daughter of my hopes and of my fears ! 
Press' d on thy senseless cheek a troubled kiss. 
And breathed my blessing over thee with tears. 
But memory did not long our bliss alloy ; 
For gentle nature, who had given relief, 
Wean'd with new love the chasten'd heart from 

grief; 
And the sweet season minister'd to joy. 

4. 
It was a season when their leaves and flowers 
The trees as to an Arctic summer spread; 
When chilling wintry winds and snowy showers, 
Which had too long usurp'd the vernal hours, 
Like spectres from the sight of morning, fled 
Before the presence of that joyous May ; 
And groves and gardens all the hve-long day 
Rung with the birds' loud love-songs. Over all. 
One thrush was heard from morn till even-fall ; 
Thy Mother well remembers when she lay 
The happy prisoner of the genial bed, 
How from yon lofty poplar's topmast spray 
At earliest dawn his thrilling pipe was heard ; 
And when the hght of evening died away, 
That blithe and indefatigable bird 
Still his redundant song of joy and love preferr'd. 



5. 
How I have doted on thine infant smiles 
At morning, when thine eyes unclosed on mine ; 
How, as the months in swift succession roU'd, 
I mark'd thy human faculties unfold, 
And watch' d the dawning of the light divine; 
And with what artifice of playful guiles 
Won from thy lips with still-repeated wiles 
Kiss after kiss, a reckoning often told, — 
Something I ween thou know'st; for thou hast 

seen 
Thy sisters in their turn such fondness prove, 
And felt how childhood, in its winning years, 
The attemper' d soul to tenderness can move. 
This thou canst tell; but not the hopes and fears 
With which a parent's heart doth overflow, — 
The thoughts and cares inwoven with that 

love, — 
Its nature and its depth, thou dost not, canst not 

know. 

6. 

The years which since thy birth have pass'd 

away 
May well to thy young retrospect appear 
A measureless extent : — like yesterday 
To me, so soon they fiU'd their short career. 
To thee discourse of reason have they brought 
With sense of time and change ; and something 

too 
Of this precarious state of things have taught, 
Where Man abideth never in one stay; 
And of mortality a mom-nful thought. 
And I have seen thine eyes suffused in grief, 
When I have said that with autumnal gray 
The touch of eld hath mark'd thy father's head . 
That even the longest day of life is brief, 
And mine is falling fast into the yellow leaf. 

7. 
Thy happy nature from the painful thought 
With instinct turns, and scarcely canst thou 

bear 
To hear me name the grave. Thouknowest not 
How large a portion of my heart is there ! 
The faces which I loved in infancy 
Are gone ; and bosom-friends of riper age, 
With whom I fondly talk'd of years to come, 
Summon'd before me to their heritage 
Are in the better world, beyond the tomb. 
And I have brethren there, and sisters dear, 
And dearer babes. I therefore needs must 

dwell 
Often in thought with those whom still I love so 

well. 

8. 
Thus wilt thou feel in thy mafurer mind ; 
When grief shall be thy portion, thou wilt find 
Safe consolation in such thoughts as these, — 
A present refuge in affliction's hour. 
And if indulgent Heaven thy lot should bless 
With all imaginable happiness, 
Here shalt thou have, my chfld, beyond all 

power 
Of chance, thy holiest, surest, best delight. 
Take therefore now thy Father's latest lay,— 
Perhaps his last ; — and treasure in thine heart 
The feelings that its musing strains convey. 
A song it is of life's dechning day, 



A TALE or PARAGUAY 



11 



Yet meet for youth. Vain passions to excite, 
No strains of morbid sentiment I sing, 
Nor tell of idle loves with ill-spent breath; 
A reverent offering to the Grave I bring, 
And twine a garland for the brow of Death. 

Keswick, 1814. 



PROEM. 



That was a memorable day for Spain, 
When on Pamplona's towers, so basely won, 
The Frenchmen stood, and saw upon the plain 
Their long expected succours hastening on: 
Exultingly they mark'd the brave array, 
And deem'd their leader should his purpose gain, 
Though Wellington and England barr'd the 

way. 
Anon the bayonets glitter'd in the sun, 
And frequent cannon flash' d, whose lurid hght 
Redden'd through sulphurous smoke ; fast vol- 
leying round 
Roll'd the war thunders, and with long rebound 
Backward from many a rock and cloud capt 

height 
In answering peals Pyrene sent the soimd. 
Impatient for relief, toward the fight 
The hungry garrison their eye-balls strain : 
Vain wasthe Frenchman's skill, his valour vain; 
And even then, when eager hope almost 
Had moved their irreligious lips to prayer. 
Averting fi'om the fatal scene their sight. 
They breathed the execrations of despair. 
Por Wellesley's star hath risen ascendant there; 
Once more he drove the host of France to flight. 
And triumph'd once again for God and for the 
right. 

That was a daj', whose influence far and wide 
The struggUng nations felt ; it was a joy 
Wherewith all Europe rung from side to side. 
Yet hath Pamplona seen, in former time, 
A moment big with mightier consequence. 
Affecting many an age and distant clime. 
That day it was which saw in her defence. 
Contending with the French before her wall, 

r A noble soldier of Guipuzcoa fall; 
Sore hurt, but not to death. For when long care 
Restored his shatter'd leg, and set him free, 
He would not brook a slight deformity. 
As one who, being gay and debonnair. 
In courts conspicuous as in camps must be ; 
So he, forsooth, a shapely boot must wear ; 
And the vain man, with peril of his life. 

Laid the recover' d limb again beneath the knife. 

Long time upon the bed of pain he lay, 
WhiUng with books the weary hours away ; 
And from that circumstance and this vain man 
A train of long events their course began. 
Whose term it is not given us yet to see. 
Who hath not heard Loyola's sainted name. 
Before whom Kings and Nations bow'd the 

knee? 
Thy annals, Ethiopia, might proclaim 
What deeds arose from that prolific day ; 
And of dark plots might shuddering Europe tell. 



But Science, too, her trophies would display; 
Faith give the m.artyrs of Japan their fame ; 
And Charity on works of love would dwell 
In California's dolorous regions drear; 
And where, amid a pathless world of wood, 
Gathering a thousand rivers on his way. 
Huge Orellana rolls his affluent flood ; 
And where the happier sons of Paraguay, 
By gentleness and pious art subdued, 
Bow'd their meek heads beneath the Jesuits' 

sway, 
And lived and died in filial servitude. 

I love thus uncontroU'd, as in a dream. 
To muse upon the course of human things ; 
Exploring sometimes the remotest springs, 
Far as tradition lends one guiding gleam ; 
Or following, upon Thought's audacious wings, 
Into Futurity, the endless stream. 
But now, in quest of no ambitious height, 
I go where Truth and Nature lead my way, 
And ceasing here from desultory flight. 
In measured strains I tell a Tale of Paraguay. 



CANTO L 

1. 
Jennek ! forever shall thy honour'd name 
Among the children of mankind be bless'd ; 
Who by thy skill hast taught us how to tame 
One dire disease, — the latncntable pest 
Which Africa sent forth to scourge the West, 
As if in vengeance for her sable brood 
So many an age remorselessly oppress'd. 
For that most fearful malady subdued 
Receive a poet's praise, a father's gratitude. 

2. • 

Fair promise be this triumph of an age 
When Man, with vain desires no longer bhnd, 
And wise, though late, his only war shall wage, 
Against the miseries which afflict mankind. 
Striving with virtuous heart and strenuous mind 
Till evil from the earth shall pass away. 
Lo, tliis his glorious destiny assign' d ! 
For that bless'd consumma'ion let us pray, 
And trust in fervent failh, and labour as we may. 

3. 
The hideous malady which lost its povrer 
When Jenner's art the dire contagion stay'd, 
Among Columbia's sons, in fatal hour. 
Across the wide Atlantic wave convey'd, 
Its fiercest form of pestilence display'd: 
Where'er its deadly course the plague began. 
Vainly the wretched sufferer look'd for aid ; 
Parent from child, and child from parent ran, 
For tyrannous fear dissolved all natural bonds of 



A feeble nation of Guarani race, 
Thinn'd by perpetual wars, but unsubdued. 
Had taken up at length a resting place 
Among those tracks of lake, and swamp, and 

wood, 
W'here Mondai, issuing from its solitude, 
Flows with slow stream to Empalado's bed. 
It was a region desolate and rude ; 



13 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



But thither had the horde for safety fled, 
And being there conceal'd, in peace their lives 
they led. 

5. 
There had the tribe a safe asylum found, 
Amid those marshes wide and woodlands dense, 
With pathless wilds and waters spread around, 
And labyrinthine swamps, a sure defence 
From human foes, — but not from pestilence. 
The spotted plague appear'd, that direst ill; 
How brought among them none could tell, or 

whence ; 
The mortal seed had lain among them still. 
And quicken'd now to work the Lord's mysteri- 
ous will. 

6. 

Alas, it was no medicable grief 
V/hich herbs might reach ! Nor could the jug- 
gler's power, 
With all his antic mummeries, bring relief. 
Faith might not aid him in that ruling hour, 
Himself a victim now. The dreadful stour 
None could escape, nor aught its force assuage. 
The marriageable maiden had her dower 
From death ; the strong man sunk beneath its 
rage, 
And death cut short the thread of childhood and 
of age. 

7. 
No time for customary mourning now; 
Whh hand close clinch' d to pluck the rooted 

hair, 
To beat the bosom, on the swelling brow 
Inflict redoubled blows, and bhndly tear 
The cheeks, indenting bloody furrows there. 
The deep traced signs indelible of woe ; 
Then to some crag, or bank abrupt, repair. 
And giving gri(Jf its scope, infuriate throw 
The impatient body thence upon the earth below. 

8. 
Devices these by poor, weak nature taught, 
Which thus a cliange of suffering would obtain ; 
And flying from intolerable thought, 
And piercing recollections, would full fain 
Distract itself by sense of fleshly pain 
From anguish that the soul must else endure. 
Easier all outward torments to sustain, 
Than those heart wounds which only tiiiie can 
cure. 
And he in whom alone the hopes of man are sure. 

9. 

None sorrow' d here; the sense of woe was 

sear'd. 
When every one endured his own sore ill. 
The prostrate sufferers neither hoped nor fear'd ; 
The body labour' d, but the heart was sdll : — 
So let the conquering malady fulfil 
Its fatal course, rest cometh at the end? 
Passive they lay with neither wish nor will 
For aught but this ; nor did they long attend 
That welconie boon from death, the never-failing 
friend. 

10. 
V/ho is there to make ready now the pit. 
The house that will content from this day forth 
Its easy tenant ? Who in vestments fit 



Shall swathe the sleeper for his bed of earth, 
Now tractable as when a babe at birth ? 
Who now the ample funeral urn shall knead. 
And, burying it beneath his proper hearth. 
Deposit there with careful hands the dead, 
And lightly then relay the floor above his head I 

11. 
Unwept, unshrouded, and unsepulchred. 
The hammock, where they Lang, for winding 

sheet 
And grave suffices the deserted dead : 
There from the armadillo's searching feet 
Safer than if within the tomb's retreat. 
The carrion birds obscene in vain essay 
To find that quarry : round and round they beat 
The air, but fear to enter for their prey, 
And from the silent door the jaguar turns away. 

12. 
But nature for her universal law 
Hath other, surer instruments in store. 
Whom from the haunts of men no wonted awe 
Withholds as with a spell. In swarms they pour 
From wood and swamp ; and when their work 

is o'er. 
On the white bones the mouldering roof will fall; 
Seeds will take root, and spring in sun and 

shower ; 
And Mothei- Earth ere long with her green pall, 
Resuming to herself the wreck, will cover all. 

13. 

Oh ! better thus with earth to have their part. 

Than in Egyptian catacombs to lie. 

Age after age preserved by/horrid art, 

In ghastly image of humanity ! 

Strange pride that with corruption thus would 

vie! 
And strange delusion that would thus maintain 
The fleshly form, till cycles shall pass by, 
And in the series of the eternal chain. 
The sphit come to seek its old abode again. 

14. 
One pair alone survived the general fate ; 
Left in such drear and mournful solitude. 
That death might seem a preferable state. 
Not more depress'd the Arkite patriarch stood, 
When landing first on Ararat he view'd. 
Where all around the mountain summits lay, 
Like islands seen amid the boundless flood : 
Nor our first parents more forlorn than they. 
Through Eden when they took their solitary way. 

15. 
Alike to them it seem'd, in their despair. 
Whither they wander' d from the infected spot. 
Chance might direct their steps: they took no 

care ; 
Come well or ill to them, it matter'd not ! 
Left as they were in that unhappy lot. 
The sole survivors they of all their race. 
They reck'd not when their fate, nor where, 

nor what. 
In this resignment to their hopeless case. 
Indifferent to all choice or circumstance of place. 

16. 
That palsying stupor past away ere long, 
1 And as the spring of health resumed its power, 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



13 



Tiiey felt ihat life was dear, and hope was 

strong. 
What marvel ? 'Twas with them the inoniing 

hotir. 
When bliss appears to be the natural dower 
Of all the creatures of this joyous earth ; 
And sorrow, fleeting, like a vernal shower, 
Scarce interrupts the current of our mirth ; 
Such is the happy heart we bring with us at birth. 

17. 
Though of his nature and his boundless love 
Erring, yet tutor' d by instinctive sense, 
They rightly deem'd the Power who rules above 
Had saved them from the wasting pestilence. 
That favouring power would still be their 

defence : 
Thus were they by their late deliverance taught 
To place a child liiie trust in Providence, 
And in their state forlorn they found this thought 
Of natural faith with'hope and consolation fraught. 

18. 
And now they built themselves a leafy bower> 
Amid a glade, slow Mondai's stream beside, 
Screen'd from the southern blast of piercing 

power ; 
Not like their native dwelling, long and wide. 
By skilful toil of numbers edified. 
The common home of all, their human nest, 
Where threescore hammocks, pendant side by 

side, 
Were ranged, and on the ground the fires were 

dress' d ; 
Alas, that populous hive hath now no living guest ! 

19. 
A few firm stakes they planted in the ground, 
Circling a narrow space, yet large enow ; 
These, strongly interknit, they closed around 
With basket work of many a pUant bough. 
The roof was like the sides ; the door was low, 
And rude the hut, and trimm'd with little care. 
For little heart had they to dress it now ; 
Yet was the humble structure fresh and fair. 
And soon its inmates found that love might so- 
journ there. 

20. 
Quiara could recall to mind the course 
Of twenty summers ; perfectly he knew 
Whate'er his fathers taught of skill or force. 
Right to the mark his whizzing lance he threw, 
And from his bow the unerring arrow flew 
With fatal aim: and when the laden bee 
Buzz'd by him in its flight, he could pursue 
Its path with certain ken, and follow free 
Until he traced the hive in hidden bank or free. 

21. 
Of answering years was Monnema, nor less 
Expert in all her sex's household ways. 
The Indian weed she slulfully could dress ; 
Arid in what depth to drop the yellow maize 
She knew, and when around its stem to raise 
The lighten' d soil ; and well could she prepare 
Its ripen'd seed for food, her proper praise ; 
Or in the embers turn with frequent care 
Its eucculent head yet green, sometimes for 
daintier fare. 



22. 
And how to macerale the bark she knew, 
And draw apart its beaten fibres fine, 
And bleaching them in sun, and air, and dew. 
From dry and glossy filaments entwine. 
With rapid twirl of hand, the lengthening line ; 
Next interknit ting well the twisted thread, 
In many an even mesh its knots combine. 
And shape in tapering length the pensile bed, 
Light hammock there to hang beneath the leafy 
shed. 



Time had been when, expert in works of clay, 
She lent her hands the swelling urn to mould, 
And fiird it for the appointed festal day 
With the beloved beverage which the bold 
Quafi"'d in their triumph and their joy of old ; 
The fruitful cause of many a,n uproar rude, 
When, in their drunken bravery uncontroU'd, ^ 
Some bitter jest awoke the dormant feud. 
And wrath, and rage, and strife, and wounds, and 
death ensued. 

24. 
These occupations were gone by ; the skill 
Was useless now, which once had been her 

pride. 
Content were they, when thirst impell'd, to fill 
The dry and hollow gourd from Mondai's side ; 
The river from its sluggish bed supplied 
A draught for repetition all unmeet ; 
Howbeit the bodily want was satisfied ; 
No feverish pulse ensued, nor ireful heat ; 
Their days were undisturb'd, their natural sleep 

was sweet. 

25. 

She too, had learn'd in youth how best to trim 
The honor'd Chief for his triumphal day. 
And covering with soft gums the obedient limb 
And body, then with feathers overlay. 
In regular hues disposed, a rich display. 
Well pleased the glorious savage stood, and eyed 
The growing work ; then, vain of his array, 
Look'd \\'ith complacent frown from side to side, 
Stalk'd with elater step, and swell' d with stateher 
pride, 

26. 

Feasts and carousals, vanity and strife. 
Could have no place with them in solitude 
To break the tenor of their even hfe. 
Quiara day l)y day his game pursued. 
Searching the air, the water, and the wood. 
With hawk like eye, and arrow sure as fate ; 
And Monnema prepar'd the hunter's food: 
Cast with him here in this forlorn estate. 
In all things for the man was she a fitting mate. 

27. 
The Moon had gather' d oft her monthly store 
Of light, and oft in darkness left the sky, 
Since Monnema a growing burden bore 
Of hfe and hope. The appointed weeks go by • 
And now her hour is come, and none is nigh 
To help : but human help she needed none. 
A few short throes endured with scarce a cry, 
Upon the bank she laid her new born son, 
Then slid into the stream, and bathed, and all 
was done. 



14 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



28, 
Might old observances have there been kept, 
Then should the husband to that pensile bed, 
Like one exhausted with the birth, have crept, 
And laying down in feeble guise his head, 
For many a day been nursed and dieted 
With tender care, to childing mothers due. 
Certes a custom strange, and yet far spread 
Through many a savage tribe, howe'eritgrew. 
And once in the old world known as widely as 
the new. 

29. 
This could not then be done ; he might not lay 
The bow and those unerring shafts aside ; 
Nor through the appointed weeks forego the 

Pi-ey, 
Still to be sought amid those regions wdde. 
None being there who should the while provide 
That lonely household with their needful food ; 
So, still Quiara through the forest phed 
His daily task, and in the thickest wood 
Still laid his snares for birds, and still the chase 
pursued. 

30. 
But seldom may such thoughts of mingled joy, 
A father's agitated breast dilate, 
As when he first beheld that infant boy. 
Who hath not proved it, ill can estimate 
The feeling of that stirring hour, — the weight 
Of that new sense, the thoughtful, pensive bliss. 
In all the changes of our changeful state. 
Even from the cradle to the grave I wis. 
The heart doth undergo no change so great as this. 

31. 

A deeper and unwonted feeling fill'd 

These parents, gazing on their new born son. 

Already in their busy hopes they build 

On this frail sand. Now let the seasons run. 

And let the natural work of time be done 

With them, — for unto them a child is born ; 

And when the hand of Death may reach the 

one. 
The other will not now be left to mourn, 
A soUtary Vv'retch, all utterly forlorn. , 

32. 
Thus Monnema and thus Quiara thought, 
Though each the melancholy thought repress' d; 
They could not choose but feel, yet utter' d not 
The human feehng, which in hours of rest 
Often would rise, and fill the boding breast 
With a dread foretaste of that mournful day. 
When, at the inexorable Power's behest. 
The unwilling spirit, called perforce away, 
- Must leave, forever leave. Us dear connatural clay. 

33. 
Link'd as they were, where each to each was all. 
How might the poor survivor hope to bear 
That heaviest loss which one day must befall, 
Nor sink beneath the weight of his despair ? 
Scarce could the heart even for a moment dare 
That miserable time to contemplate. 
When the dread Messenger should find them 

there. 
From whom is no escape, — and reckless Fate, 
Whom it had bound so close, forever separate. 



34. 
Lighter that burden lay upon the heart 
When this dear babe was born to share their lot ; 
They could endure to think that they must 

part. 
Then too a glad consolatory thought 
Arose, while gazing on the child they sought 
With hope their dreary prospect to delude, 
Till they almost believed, as fancy taught. 
How that from them a tribe should spring fe 

new'd, 
To people and possess that ample solitude. 

35. 
Such hope they felt, but felt that whatsoe'er 
The undiscoverable to come might prove, 
Unwise it were to let that bootless care 
Disturb the present hours of peace and love. 
For they had gain'd a happiness above 
The state which in their native horde was 

known : 
No outward causes were there here to move 
Discord and alien thoughts ; being thus alone 
From all mankind, their hearts and their desires 



were one. 



36. 



Different their love in kind and in degree 
From vuliat their poor depraved forefathers 

knew, 
With whom degenerate instincts were left free 
To take their course, and blindly to pursue. 
Unheeding they the ills that must ensue, 
The bent of brute desire. No moral tie 
Bound the hard husband to his servile crew 
Of wives ; and they the chance of change might 

try, 
All love destroy' d by such preposterous liberty. 

37. 
Far other tie this sohtary pair 
Indissolubly bound ; true helpmates they, 
In joy or grief, in weal or woe to shs.re, 
In sickness or in health, through life's long day ; 
And reassuming in their hearts her sway 
Benignant Nature made the burden light. 
It was the Woman's pleasure to obey,^ 
The Man's to ease her toil in all he might ; 
So each in serving each obtain' d the best delight. 

38. 
And as connubial, so parental love 
Obey'd unerring Nature's order here, 
For now no force of impious custom strove 
Against her law ; — such as was wont to sear 
The unhappy heart with usages severe. 
Till harden' d mothers in the grave could lay 
Their living babes with no com.punctious tear ; 
So monstrous men become, when from the way 
Of primal light they turn through heathen paths 
astray. 

39. 
Deliver'd from this yoke, in them henceforth 
The springs of natural love may freely flow : 
New joys, new virtues with that happy birth 
Are born, and with the growing infant grow. 
Source of our purest happiness below 
Is that benignant law which hath entwined 
Dearest delight with strongest ditty i so, 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



15 



That in the healthy heart and righteous mind 
Ever they co-exisr, inseparably combined. 

40. 
Oh ! bliss for them when in that infant face 
They now the unfolding faculties 'descry, 
And fondly gazing, trace — or think they trace — 
The first faint speculation in that eye, 
Which hitherto hath roll'd in vacancy ! 
Oh ! bhss in that soft countenance to seek 
Some mark of recognition, and espy 
The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek 
Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth 
speak ! 

41. 
For him, if born among their native tribe, 
Som^e haughty name his parents had thought 

good. 
As weening that wherewith they should ascribe 
The strength of some fierce tenant of the wood. 
The water, or the aerial solitude. 
Jaguar or vulture, water- wolf or snake. 
The beast that prowls abroad in search of blood. 
Or reptile that within the treacherous brake 
Waits for the prey, upcoil'd, its hunger to aslake. 

42. 
Now soften' d as their spirits were by love. 
Abhorrent from such thoughts they turn'd 

away ; 
And with a happier feeling, from the dove. 
They named the child Yeruti. On a day. 
When, smihng at his mother's breast in play, 
They in his tones of murmuring pleasure heard 
A sweet resemblance of the stock-dove's lay. 
Fondly they named him from that gentle bird ; 
And soon such happy use endear' d the fittmg word. 

43. 

Days past, and moons have wax'd and waned, 

and still 
This dovelet, nestled in their leafy bower. 
Obtains increase of sense, and strength, and 

will, 
As in due order many a latent power 
Expands, — humanity's exalted dower ; 
And they, while thus the days serenely fled, 
Beheld him flourish like a vigorous flower. 
Which, lifting from a genial soil its head. 
By seasonable suns and kindly showers is fed. 

44. 
Erelong the cares of helpless babyhood 
To the next stage of infancy give place, 
That age with sense of conscious growth en- 
dued. 
When every gesture hath its proper grace : 
Then come the unsteady step, the tottering pace; 
And watchful hopes and emulous thoughts 

appear ; 
The imitative lips essay to trace 
Their words, observant both with eye and ear. 
In mutilated sounds which parents love to hear. 

45. 
Serenely thus the seasons pass away ; 
And, oh ! how rapidly they seem to fly 
With those for whom to-morrow, hke to-day. 
Glides on in peaceful uniformity ! 
Five years have since Yeruti's birth gone by, 



Five happy years ; — and ere the Moon which 

then 
Hung like a Sylphid's light canoe on high, 
Should fill its circle, Monnema, again. 
Laying her burden down, must bear a mother's 
pain. 

46. 
Alas, a keener pang, before that day, 
Must by the wretched Monnema be borne ! 
In quest of game Quiara went his way 
To roam the wilds, as he was wont, one morn ; 
She look'd in vain at eve for his return. 
By moonhght, through the midnight solitude, 
She sought him ; and she found his garment torn, 
His bow and useless arrows in the wood, 
Marks of a jaguar's feet, a broken spear, and 
blood. 



CANTO II. 

1. 

THOU who, listening to the Poet's song, 
Dost yield thy wiUing spirit tojiis sway, 
Look not that I should painfully prolong 
The sad narration of that fatal day 
With tragic details ; all too true the lay ! 
Nor is my purpose e'er to entertain 
The heart with useless grief; but, as I may, 
Blend in my calm and meditative strain 
Consolatory thoughts, the balm for real pain. 
2. 

Youth or Maiden, whosoe'er thou art, 
Safe in my guidance may thy spirit be ; 

1 wound not wantonly the tender heart ; 
And if sometimes a tear of sympathy 
Should rise, it will from bitterness be free — 
Yea, with a henling virtue be endued, 

As thou, in this true tale, shalt hear from me 
Of evils overcome, and grief subdued. 
And virtues springing up like flowers in solitude. 

3. 
The unhappy Monnema, when thus bereft. 
Sunk not beneath the desolating blow. 
Widow'd she was ; but still her child was left, 
For him must she sustain the weight of woe. 
Which else would in that hour have laid her low. 
Nor wish' d she now the work of death complete; 
Then only doth the soul of woman know 
Its proper strength, when love and duty meet ; 
Invincible the heart wherein they have their seat 

4. 

The seamen who, upon some coral' reef, 
Are cast amid the interminable main. 
Still cling to life, and, hoping for relief, 
Drag on their days of wretchedness and pain. 
In turtle shells they hoard the scanty rain, 
And eat its flesh, sun dried for lack of fire. 
Till the weak body can no more sustain 
Its wants, but sinks beneath its sufterings du'c ; 
Most miserable man who sees the rest expire ' 



He lingers there while months and years go by, 
And holds his hope though months and years 
have past ; 



16 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 



And still at morning round the farthest sky, 
And still at eve liis eagle glance is cast, 
If there he may behold the far-off mast 
Arise, for which he hath not ceased to pray. 
And if perchance a ship should come at last, 
And bear him from that dismal bank away, 
He blesses God that he hath lived to see that day. 

6. 
So strong a hold hath life upon the soul, 
"SVhich sees no dawning of eternal light. 
But subject to this mortal frame's control, 
Forgetful of its origin and right, 
Content in bondage dwells and utter night. 
By worthier ties was this poor mother bound 
To life ; even while her grief was at the height. 
Then in maternal love support she found, 
And in maternal cares a heahng for her wound. 

7. 
For now her hour is come : a girl is born, 
Poor infant, all unconscious of its fate, 
How passing strange, how utterly forlorn ! 
The genial season served to mitigate. 
In all it might, their sorrov/ful estate. 
Supplying to the mother, at her door, 
From neighbouring trees, which bent beneath 

their weight, 
A full supply of fruitage now mature ; 
So in that time t)f need their sustenance was sure. 

8. 
Nor then alone, but alway did the Eye 
Of Mercy look upon that lonely bower. 
Days past, and weeks ; and months and years 

went by. 
And never evil thing the while had power 
To enter there. The boy, in sun and shower. 
Rejoicing in his strength, to youthhed grew ; 
And Mooma, that beloved girl, a dower 
Of gentleness from bounteous nature drew, 
With all that should the heart of womankind 

imbue. 

9. 

The tears which o'er her infancy were shed 
Profuse, resented not of grief alone : 
Maternal love their bitterness allay'd. 
And with a strength and virtue all its own, 
Sustain' d the breaking heart. A look, a tone, 
A gesture of that innocent babe, in eyes 
With saddest recollections overflown. 
Would sometimes make a tender smile arise, 
Like sunshine opening through a shower in vernal 
skies. 

10. 
No looks but those of tenderness were found 
To turn upon that helpless infant dear ; 
And as her sense unfolded, never sound 
Of wrath or discord brake upon her ear. 
Her soul its native purity sincere 
Possess' d, by no example here defil'd ; 
From envious passions free, exempt from fear, 
Unknowing of all ill, amid the wild 
Beloving and beloved she grew, a happy child. 

11. 

Yea, where that solitary bower was placed. 
Though all unlike to Paradise the scene, 
'.A wide circumference of woodlands waste,) 



Soiuething of what in Eden miglit have been 
Was shadow'd there imperfectly, I ween, 
In this fair creature : safe from all offence, 
Expanding like a shelter' d plant serene. 
Evils that fret and stain being far from thence, 
Her heart in peace and joy retain' d its innocence, 

12. 

At first the infant to Yeruti proved 
A cause of wonder and disturbing joy. 
A stronger tie than that of kindred moved 
His inmost being, as the happy boy 
Felt in his heart of hearts, without alloy. 
The sense of kind : a fellow creature she. 
In whom, when now she ceased to be a toy 
For tender sport, his soul rejoiced to see 
Connatural powers expand, and gro^^'ing sym- 
pathy. 

13. 

For her he cull'd the fairest flowers, and sought 
Throughout the woods the earliest fruits for her. 
The cayman's eggs, the honeycomb he brought 
To this beloved sister, — whatsoe'er. 
To his poor thought, of delicate or rare, 
The wilds might yield, solicitous to find. 
They who affirm all natural acts declare 
Self-love to be the ruler of the mind. 
Judge from their own mean hearts, and foully 
wrong mankind. 

14. 

Three souls in whom no selfishness had place 
Were here ; three happy souls, which undefiled. 
Albeit in darkness, still retain'd a trace 
Of their celestial origin. The wild 
Was as a sanctuary where Nature smiled 
Upon these simple children of her own, 
And, cherishing whate'er was meek and mild, 
Call'd forth the gentle virtues, such alone. 
The evils which evoke the stronger being un- 
known. 

15. 

What though at birth we bring with us the seed 
Of sin, a mortal taint, — in heart and will 
Too surely felt, too plainly shown in deed, — 
Our fatal heiitage ; yet are we still 
The children of the All Merciful ; and ill 
They teach, who tell us that from hence must 

flow 
God's wrath, and then, his justice to fulfil, 
Death everlasting, never-ending woe : 
miserable lot of man if it were so 1 

16. 
Falsely and impiously teach they who thus 
Our heavenly Father's holy will misread ' 
In bounty has the Lord created us. 
In love redeem' d. From this authentic creed 
Let no bewildering sophistry impede 
The heart's entire assent, for God is good. 
Hold firm this faith, and, in whatever need, 
Doubt not but thou wilt find thy soul endued 
With all-sufficing strength of heavenly fortitude I 

17. 

By nature peccable and frail are we. 
Easily beguiled ; to vice, to error prone; 
But apt for virtue too. Humanity 
Is not a field where tares and thorns alone 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



17 



Are left to spring ; good seed iiath there been 

30 -vn 
With no unsparing hand. Sometimes the shoot 
la 'choked with weeds, or withers on a stone ; 
But in a kindly soil it strikes its root, 
And flourisheth, and bringeth forth abundant fruit. 

18. 
Love, duty, generous feeling, tenderness, 
Sprmg in the uncontaminated mind ; 
And these were Mooma's natural dower. Nor 

less 
Had liberal nature to the boy assign' d. 
Happier herein than if among mankind 
Their lot had fallen, — oh, certes happier here ! 
That all things tended still more close to bind 
Their earliest ties, and they from year to year 
Retaia'd a childish heart, fond, simple and sincere . 

19. 
They had no sad reflection to alloy 
The calm contentment of the passing day, 
Nor foresight to disturb the present joy. 
Not so with Monnema ; albeit the sway 
Of time had reached her heart, and worn away, 
At length, the grief so deeply seated there, 
The fiiturj often, like a burden, lay 
Upon that heart, a cause of secret care 
And melancholy thought ; yet did she not despair. 

20. 
Chance from the fellowship of human kind 
Had cut them off, and chance might reunite. 
On this poor possibihty her mind 
Reposed ; she did not for herself invite 
The unlikely thought, and cherish with delight 
The dream of what such change might haply 

bring ; 
Gladness with hope long since had taken flight 
From her ; she felt that life was on the wing. 
And happiness, like youth, has here no second 

spring. 

21. 
So were her feelings to her lot composed. 
That to herself all change had now been pain. 
For Time upon her own desires had closed ; 
But in her children as she lived again. 
For their dear sake she learnt to entertain 
A wish for human intercourse renew'd : 
And oftentimes, while they devour'd the strain, 
Would she beguile their evening solitude 
With stories strangely told and strangely under- 
stood. 

22. 
Little she knew, for Uttle had she seen. 
And little of traditionary lore 
Had reached her ear; and yet to them, I ween. 
Their mother's knowledge seem'd a boundless 

store. 
A world it opened to their thoughts, yea, more : 
Another world beyond this mortal state. 
Bereft of her they had indeed been poor ; 
Being left to animal sense, degenerate ; 
Mere creatures, they had sunk below the beasts' 

estate. 

23. 
The human race, from Iier they understood, 
Was not within that lonely hut confined. 



But distant far beyond their world of wood 
Were tribes and powerful nations of their kind ; 
And of the old observances which bind 
People and chiefs, the ties of man and wife. 
The laws of kin religiously assign' d, 
Rites, customs, scenes of riotry and sfrife, 
And all the strange vicissitudes of savage life. 

24. 
Wondering they listen to the wondrous tale ; 
But no repining thought such tales excite : 
Only a wish, if wishes might avail, 
Was haply felt, with juvenile dehght., 
To mingle in the social dance at night. 
Where the broad moonshine, level as a flood, 
O'erspread the plain, and in the silver light. 
Well pleased, the placid elders sat and view'd 
The sport, and seem'd therein to feel their youth 
renew'd. 

25. 
But when the darker scenes their mother drew. 
What crimes were wrought when drunken fury 



What miseries from their fatal discord grew. 
When horde with horde in deadly strife en- 
gaged : 
The rancorous hate with which their wars they 

waged : 
The more unnatural horrors which ensued, 
When with inveterate vengeance i^assuaged, 
The victors round their slaughter' d captives 
stood, 
And babes were brought to dip their Httle hands 
in blood ; — 

26. 
Horrent they heard ; and with her hands the 

Maid 
Press'd her eyes close, as if she strove to blot 
The hateful image which her mind portray'd. 
The Boy sat silently, intent in thought ; 
Then, with a deep drawn sigh, as if he sought 
To heave the oppressive feeling from his breast, 
Complacently compared their harmles.s lot 
With such wild hfe, outrageous and unblest; 
Securely thus to liv^, he said, was surely best. 



On tales of blood they could not bear to dwell ; 
From such their hearts abhorrent shrunk in fear. 
Better they liked that Monnema should tell 
Of things unseen ; what Power had placed them 

here . 
And whence the living spirit came, and wh(?re 
It past, when parted from this mortal mould ; 
Of such mysterious themes with veiling ear 
They heard, devoutly listening while she told 
Strangely disfigured truths, and fables feign'd of 
"old. 

28. 
By the Great Spirit man was made, she said ; 
His voice it was which peal'd along the sky. 
And shook the heavens, and fill'd the earth 

with dread. 
Alone and inaccessible, on high 
He had his dwelling place eternally, 
And Father was his name. This all knew well. 
But none had seen his face ; and if hia eye 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Regarded what upon the earth befell, 
Or if he cared for man, she knew not; — who 
could tell? 

29. 
But this, she said, was sure — that after death 
There was reward, and there was punishment : 
And that the evil doers, when the breath 
Of their injurious lives at length was spent, 
Into all noxious forms abhorr'd were sent, 
Of beasts and reptiles ; so retaining still, 
Their old propensities, on evil bent, 
They work'd where'er they might their wicked 

will, 
The natural foes of man, whom we pursue and 

kill. 

30. 
Of better spirits, some there were who said 
That in the grave they had their place of rest. 
Lightly they laid the earth upon the dead, 
Lest in its narrow tenement the guest 
Should suffer underneath such load oppress'd. 
But that death surely set the spirit free. 
Sad proof to them poor Monnema address'd, 
Drawn from their father's fate ; no grave had he 
Wherein his soul might dwell. This therefore 
could not be. 

31. 
Likelier they taught who said that to the Land 
Of Souls the happy spirit took its flight, 
A region underneath the sole command 
Of the Good Power ; by him for the upright 
Appointed and replenish' d with delight : 
A land where nothing evil ever came, 
Sorrow, nor pain, nor peril, nor affright. 
Nor change, nor death ; but there the human 
frame, 
Untouch'd by age or ill, continued still the same. 

32. 
Winds v/ould not pierce it there, nor heat and 

cold 
Grieve, nor thirst parch, and hunger pine ; but 

there 
The sun by day its even influence hold 
With gonial warmth, and thro' the unclouded air 
The moon upon her nightly journey fare : 
The lakes and fish-full streams are never dry; 
Trees ever green perpetual fruitage bear ; 
And, wheresoe'er the hunter turns his eye, 
Water, and earth, and heaven, to him their stores 

supply. 

33. 
And once there was a way to that good land, 
For in mid-earth a wondrous Tree there grew. 
By which the adventurer might, with foot and 

hand. 
From branch to branch his upward course 

pursue ; 
An easy path, if what were said be true, 
Albeit the ascent was long ; and when the height 
Was gain'd, that blissful region was in view. 
Wherein the traveller safely might alight. 
And roam abroad at will, and take his free delight. 

34. 
O happy time, when ingress thus was given 
To the upper world, and at their pleasure they 



Whose hearts were strong might pass from 

Earth to Heaven 
By their own act and choice ! In evil day 
Mishap had fatally cut off that way, 
And none may now the Land of Spirits gain, 
Till from its dear loved tenement of clay, 
Violence or age, infirmity and pain. 
Divorce the soul which there full gladly would 

remain. 

35. 
Such grievous loss had by their own misdeed 
Upon the unworthy race of men been brought. 
An aged woman once, who could not speed 
In fishing, earnestly one day besought 
Her countrymen, that they of what they caught 
A portion would upon her wants bestow. 
They set her hunger and her age at nought, 
And still to her entreaties answered no ! 
And mock'd her, till they made her heart with 
rageo'erflow. 

36. 
But that Old Woman, by such wanton wrong 
Inflamed, went hurrying down ; and in the pride 
Of magic power, wherein the crone was strong. 
Her human form infirm she laid aside. 
Better the Capiguara's limbs supphed 
A strength accordant to her fierce intent ; 
These she assumed, and, burrowing deep and 

wide 
Beneath the Tree, with vicious will, she went, 
To inflict upon mankind a lasting punishment. 

37. 
Downward she wrought her way, and all around 
Labouring, the solid earth she undermined, 
And loosen'd all the roots ; then from tho 

ground 
Emerging, in her hatred of her kind. 
Resumed her proper form, and breathed a wind 
Which gathered like a tempest roimd its head: 
Eftsoon the lofty Tree its top inchned, 
Uptorn with horrible convulsion dread, 
And over half the world its mighty wreck lay 

spread. 

38. 
But never scion sprouted from that Tree, 
Nor seed sprang up ; and thus the easy way, 
Which had till then for young and old been free, 
Was closed upon the sons of men for aye, 
The mighty ruin rnoulder'd where it lay. 
Till not a trace was left ; and now in sooth 
Almost had all remembrance past away. 
This from the elders she had heard in youth ; 
Some said it v/as a tale, and some a very truth. 

39. 
Nathless departed spirits at their will 
Could from the Land of Souls pass to and ^o ; 
They come to us in sleep when all is still, 
Sometimes to warn against the impending blow, 
Alas ! more oft to visit us in woe : 
Though in their presence there was poor relief! 
And this had sad experience made her know; 
For when Quiara came, his stay was brief, 
And, waking then, she felt a freshen'd sense of 
grief. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY, 



19 



40. 
Y et to behold his face again, and hear 
Hi3 voice, though painful, was a deep delight ; 
It was a joy to think that he was near, 
To see him in the visions of the night, — 
To know that the departed still requite 
The love which to their memory still will cling : 
And though he might not bless her waking sia;ht 
With his dear presence, 'twas a blessed thing 

That sleep would thus sometimes his actual image 
bring. 

41. 
Why comes he not to me ? Yeruti cries ; 
And Mooma, echoing with a sigh the thought, 
Ask'd why it was that to her longing eyes 
No dream the image of her father brought ; 
Nor Monuema to solve that question sought 
In vain, content in ignorance to dwell ; 
Perhaps it was because they knew him not ; 
Perhaps — but sooth she could not ansv/er well ; 

What the departed did, themselves alone could 



tell. 



42. 



What one tribe held, another disbelieved, 
For all concerning this was dark, she said ; 
Uncertaia all, and hard to be received. 
The dreadful race, from whom their fathers fled, 
Boasted that even the Country of the Dead 
Was theirs, and where their Spirits chose to go, 
The ghosts of other men retired in dread 
Before the face of that victorious foe ; 
No better, then, the world above, than this below! 

43. 
What then, alas 1 if this were true, was death ? 
Only a mournful change from ill to ill ! 
And some there were who said the living breath 
Would ne'er be taken from us by the will 
Of the Good Father, but continue still 
To feed with hfe the mortal frame he gave, 
Did not mischance or wicked witchcraft kill ; — 
Evib from which no care avail'd to save. 
And whereby all were sent to fill the greedy grave 

44. 

In vaia to counterwork the baleful cliarm 
By spells of rival witchcraft was it sought ; 
Less potent was that art to help than harm. 
' No means of safety old experience brought : 
Nor better fortune did they find who thought 
From Death, as from some living ibe, to fly ; 
For speed or subterfuge avail'd them nought ; 
But wheresoe'er they fled they found him nigh : 
None ever could elude that unseen enemy. 

45. 
Bootless the boast, and vain the proud intent 
Of those who hoped, with arrogant display 
Of arms and force, to scare him from their tent, 
Ab if their threatful shouts and fierce array 
Of war could drive the Invisible away ! 
Sometimes, regardless of the sufferer's groan. 
They dragg'd the dying out, and as a prey 
Exposed him, that, content with him alone, 
Death might depart, and thus his fate avert their 
own. 

46. 
Depart he might, — ^but only to return 
In quest of other victims, soon or late ; 



When they who held this fond belief, would 

learn. 
Each by his own inevitable fate. 
That, in the course of man's uncertain state, 
Death is the one and only certain thing. 
Oh folly then to fly or deprecate 
That which, at last. Time, ever on the wing, 
Certain as dayand night, to weary age must bring! 

47. 
While thus the Matron spake, the youthful 

twain 
Listen' d in deep attention, wistfully ; 
Whether with more of wonder or of pain 
Uneath it were to tell. With steady eye 
Intent they heard ; and when she paused, a sigh 
Their sorrowful foreboding seem'd to speak : 
Questions to which she could not give reply 
Yeruti ask'd ; and for that Maiden meek, 
Involuntary tears ran down her quiet cheek. 

48. 
A different sentiment within them stirr"d, 
When Monnema recall' d to mind, one day, 
Imperfectly, what she had sometimes heard 
In childhood, long ago, the Elders say, — 
Almost from memory had it pass'd away, — 
How there appear'd amid the woodlands men 
Whom the Great Spirit sent there to convey 
His gracious will ; but little heed she then 
Had given, and like a dream it now recurr'd again. 

49. 

But these ycung questioners, from lime to time, 
Call'd up the long-forgotten theme anew. 
Strange men they were, from some remotest 

olime. 
She said, of different speech, uncouth to view, 
Having hair upon their face, and white in hue : 
Across the World of waters wide they came 
Devotedly the Father's work to do. 
And seek tlie Red Men out, and in his name 
His merciful laws, and love, and promises pro- 
claim. 

50. 
They served a Maid more beautiful than tongue 
Could tell, or heart conceive. Of human race, 
All heavenly as that Virgin was, she sprung ; 
But for her beauty and celestial grace. 
Being one in whose pure elements no trace 
Had e'er inhered of sin or mortal stain. 
The highest Heaven was now her dwelling 

place ; 
There as a Queeti divine she held her reign, 
And there in endless joy forever would remain. 

51. 
Her feet upon the crescent Eloon were set. 
And, moving in their order round her head. 
The Stars compose her sparkhug coronet. 
There at her breast the Virgin Mother fed 
A Babe divine, who was to judge the dead ; 
Such power the Spirit gave this awful Child: 
Severe he was, and in his anger dread, 
Yet alway at his Mother's will grew mild, 
So well did he obey that Maiden undefiled. 

52. 
Sometimes she had descended from above 
To visit her true votaries, and requite 



20 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Such as had served her well. And for her love, 
These bearded men, forsaking all delight, 
With labour long and dangers infinite, 
Across the great blue waters came, and sought 
The Red Men here, to win them, if they might, 
From bloody ways, rejoiced to profit aught, 
Even when with their own lives the benefit was 
bought. 

53. 

For trusting in this heavenly Maiden's grace, 
It was for them a joyful thing to die. 
As men who went to have their happy place 
With her, and with that Holy Child, on high, 
In fields of bliss above the starry sky. 
In glory at the Virgin Mother's feet ; 
And all who kept their lessons faithfully 
An everlasting guerdon there would meet, 
When Death had led their souls to that celestial 



54. 
On earth they offer' d, too, an easy life 
To those who their mild lessons would obey, 
Exempt from want, from danger, and from strife, 
And firom the forest leading them away, 
fhey placed them underneath this Virgin's 

sway, 
A numerous fellowship in peace to dwell ; 
Their high and happy office there to pay 
Devotions due, which she requited well, 
Their heavenly Guardian she in whatsoe'er befell. 

5.5. 
Thus Monnema remember" d, it was told 
By one who, in his hot and headstrong youth, 
Had left her happy service ; but when old, 
Lamented oft, with unavailing rutL 
And thoughts which sharper than a serpent's 

tooth, 
Pierced him, that he had changed that peaceful 

place 
For the fierce freedom and the ways uncouth 
Of their wild life, and lost that Lady's grace, 
Wherefore he had no hope to see in Heaven her 

face. 

56. 
And she remember'd, too, when first they fled 
For safety to the farthest solitude 
Before their cruel foes, and lived in dread 
That thither, too, their steps might be pursued 
By those old enemies athirst for blood, 
How some among them hoped to see the day 
When these beloved messengers of good 
To that lone hiding-place might find the way, 
And them to their abode of blessedness convey. 



Such tales excited in Yeruti's heart 
A stirring hope that haply he might meet 
Some minister of Heaven ; and many a part, 
Untrod before, of that wild wood retreat. 
Did he, with indefatigable feet, 
Explore ; yet ever ft-om the fi-uitless quest 
Return'd at evening to his native seat 
By daily disappointment undepress'd, — 
So buoyant was the hope that fill'd his youthful 
breast. 



58. 
At length the hour approach' d that should fulfil 
His harmless heart's desire, when they shall see 
Their fellow kind, and take for good or ill 
The fearful chance — for such it needs must be — 
Of change from that entire simphcity. 
Yet wherefore should the thought of change 

appal ? 
Grief it perhaps might bring, and injury. 
And death ; — but evil never can befall 
The virtuous, for the Eye of Heaven is over all. 



CANTO III. 

1. 
Amid those marshy woodlands far and wide, 
Which spread beyond the soaring vulture's eye, 
There grew, on Empalado's southern side, 
Groves of that tree whose leaves adust supply 
The Spaniards with their daily luxury ; 
A beverage whose salubrious use obtains 
Through many a land of mines and slavery. 
Even over all La Plata's sea-like plains, 
And Chili's mountain realm, and proud Peru's 
domains. 

2. 
But better for the injured Indian race 
Had woods of manchineel the land o'erspread ; 
Yea, in that tree so bless'd by Nature's grace 
A direr curse had they inherited. 
Than if the Upas there had rear'd its head, 
And sent its baleful scions all around. 
Blasting where'er its effluent force was shed. 
In air and water, and the infected ground, 
All things wherein the breath or sap of fife is found. 

3. 
The poor Guaranies dreamt of no such ill, 
When, for themselves in miserable hour. 
The virtues of that leaf, with pure good will. 
They taught their unsuspected visitor, 
New in the land as yet. They learnt his power 
Too soon, which law nor conscience could 

restrain ; 
A fearless, but inhuman conqueror. 
Heart-harden' d by the accursed lust of gam : 
fatal thirst of gold '. O foul reproach for Spain ^! 



For gold and silver had the Spaniards sought, 
Exploring Paraguay with desperate pains ; 
Their way through forests, axe in hand, they 

wrought ; 
Drench' d from above by unremitting rains, 
They waded over inundated plains. 
Forward by hope of plunder still allured ; 
So they might one day count their golden gains, 
They cared not at what cost of sin procured ; 
All dangers they defied, all sufferings they en- 
dured. 

5. 
Barren alike of glory and of gold 
That region proved to them ; nor would the soil 
Unto their unindustrious hands unfold 
Harvests, the fruit of peace, and wine and oil, 
The treasures that repay contented toil 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



With health and weal ; treasures that with them 

bring 
No guilt for priest and penance to assoil, 
Nor with their venom arm the awaken' d sting 
Of conscience at that hour when life is vanishing, 

6. 
But, keen of eye in their pursuit of gain, 
The conquerors look'd for lucre in this tree : 
An annual harvest there might they attain, 
Without the cost of annual industry. 
'Twas but to gather in what there grew free. 
And share Potosi's wealth. Nor thence alone. 
But gold in glad exchange they soon should see 
From all that once the Incas called their own. 
Or where the Zippa's power or Zaque's laws 
were known. 

7. 
For this, in fact though not in name a slave. 
The Indian from his family was torn ; 
And droves on droves were sent to find a grave 
In woods and swamps, by toil severe outworn, 
No friend at hand to succour or to mourn, » 
In death unpitied, as in life unbless'd. 
O miserable race, to slavery born ! 
Yet when we look beyond this world's unrest. 
More miserable then the oppressors than the 
oppress'd. 

8. 
Often had Kings essay'd to check the I'll 
By edicts not so well enforced as meant ; 
A present power was wanting to fulfil 
Remote authority's sincere intent. 
To Avarice, on its present purpose bent. 
The voice of distant Justice spake in vain ; 
False magistrates and priests their influence lent 
The accurs.ed thing for lucre to maintain : 
O fatal thirst of gold ! O foul reproach for Spam ! 



foul reproach ! but not for Spain alone. 
But for all lands that bear the Christian name ! 
Where'er commercial slavery is known; 
O shall not Justice, trumpet-tongued, proclaim 
The foul reproach, the black offence, the same ? 
Hear, guilty France! and thou, England 

hear! 
Thou who hast half redeem'd thyself from 

shame, 
When slavery from thy realms shall disappear. 
Then from this guilt, and not till then, wilt thou 

be clear. 



21 

And Corrientes, by whose, church the slain 
Were piled in heaps, till for the gather'd dead 
One common grave was dug, one service said ! 
Thou too, Parana, thy sad witness bear 
From shores with many a mournful vestio-e 

spread, ° 

And monumental crosses here and there, 
And monumenfal names that tell where dwellings 
were ! 

12. 
Nor would with all their power the Kinos of 

I Spain, '' 

Austrian or Bourbon, have at last avail' d 

I This torrent of destruction to restrain, 
And save a people every where assail'd 
By men before whose face their courage quail'd, 
But for the virtuous agency of those 
Who with the Cross alone, when arms had 

fail'd, 
Achieved a peaceful triumph o'er the foes, 

And gave that weary land the blessings of repose. 
13. 
For whensoe'er the Spaniards felt or fear'd 
An Indian enemy, they call'd for aid 
Upon Loyola's sons, now long endear'd 
To many a happy tribe, by them convey'd 
From the open wilderness or woodland shade, 
In towns of happiest polity to dwell. 
Freely these faithful ministers essay'd 
The arduous enterprise, contented well 

If with success they sped, or if as martyrs fell. 

14. 
And now it chanced some traders, who had 

fell'd 
The trees of precious foilage far and wide 
On Empalado's shore, when they beheld 
The inviting woodlands on its northern side, 
Cross'd thither in their quest, and there espied 
Yeruti's footsteps; searching then the shade, 
At length a lonely dwelling they descried, 
And at the thought of hostile hordes dismay'd. 
To the nearest mission sped, and ask'd the Je 
suit's aid. 



10. 
Jncheck'd in Paraguay it ran its course, 
Till all the gentler children of the land 
Well nigh had been consumed without remorse. 
The bolder tribes meantime, whose skilful 

hand 
Had tamed the jiorse, in many a warlike band 
Kept the field well with bow and dreadful spear. 
And now the Spaniards dared no more with- 

sta.nd 

Their force, but in their towns grew pale with 
fear, 

If the Mocobio or the Abipon drew near. 

11. 
Bear witness, Chaco, thou, from thy domain 
With Spanish blood, as erst with Indian, fed ! 



15. 
That was a call which ne'er was made in vaia 
Upon Loyola's sons. In Paraguay 
Much of injustice had they to complain, 
Much of neglect ; but faithful labourers they 
In the Lord's vineyard, there was no delay 
When summon'd to his work. A little band 
Of converts made them ready for the way ; 
Their spiritual father took a cross in hand 
To be his staff, and forth they went to search the 
land. 

16. 
He was a man of rarest qualities, 
Who to this barbarous region had confined 
A spirit with the learned and the wise 
Worthy to take his place, and from mankind 
Receive their homage, to the immortal mind * 
Paid in its just inheritance of fame. 
But he to humbler thoughts his heart inclined ; 
From Gratz, amid the Styrian hills, he came, 
And Dobrizhoffer was the good man's honour'd 
name. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



17. 
It was his evil fortune to behold 
The labours of his painful life destroy'd; 
His flock, which he had brought within the fold, 
Dispersed ; the work of ages render'd void, 
And all of good that Paraguay enjoy'd 
By blind and suicidal Fower o'erthrown. 
So he the years of his old age employ'd, 
A faithful chronicler in handing down 
Names which he loved, and things well worthy 
to be known. 

18. 
And thus, when exiled from the dear-loved 

scene, 
In proud Vienna he beguiled the pain 
Of sad remembrance ; and the Empress Queen, 
That great Teresa, she did not disdain 
In gracious mood sometimes to entertain 
Discourse with him both pleasurable and sage ; 
And sure a willing ear she well might deign 
To one whose tales may equally engage 
The wondering mind of youth, the thoughtful 

heart of age. 

19. 
But of his native speech because well nigh 
Disuse in him forgetfulness had wrought. 
In Latin he composed his history — 
A garrulous, but a hvely tale, and fraught 
With matter of delight and food for thought. 
And if he could in Merlin's glass have seen 
By whom his tomes to speak our tongue were 

taught, 
The old man would have felt as pleased, I ween. 
As when he won the ear of that great Empress 

Queen. 

20. 

Little he deem'd when with his Indian band 
He through the wilds set forth upon his way, 
A Poet then unborn, and in a land 
Which had proscribed his order, should one day 
Take up from thence his moralizing lay, 
And shape a song that, with no fiction dress'd. 
Should to his worth its grateful tribute pay, 
And sinking deep in many an English breast, 
Foster that faith divine that keeps tlie heart at rest. 



Behold him on his vv'ay i the breviary 
Which from his girdle hangs, his only shield ; 
That well-known habit is his panoply, 
That Cross, the only weapon he will wield : 
By day, he bears it for his staff afield. 
By night, it is the pillow of his bed : 
No other lodging these wild woods can yield 
Than earth's hard lap, and rustling overhead 
A canopy of deep and tangled boughs far spread. 

22. 
Yet may they not without some cautious care 
Take up their inn content upon the ground. 
First it behoves to clear a circle there, 
And trample down the grass and plantage round, 
Where many a deadly reptile might be found. 
Whom with its bright and comfortable heat 
The flame would else allure : such plagues 
abound 



In these thick woods, and therefore must they 
beat 
The earth, and trample well the herbs beneath 

their feet. 

23. 
And now they heap dry reeds and broken wood : 
The spark is struck, the crackhng fagots blaze 
And cheer that unaccustoni'd solitude. 
Soon have they made their frugal meal of maize, 
In grateful adoration then they raise 
The evening hymn. How solemn in the wild 
That sweet accordant strain wherewith they 

praise 
The Queen of Angels, merciful and mild ! 
Hail, holiest Mary ! Maid, and Mother undefiled. 

24. 
Blame as thou mayst the Papist's erring creed, 
But not their salutary right of even ! 
The prayers that from a pious soul proceed. 
Though misdirected, reach the ear of Heaven. 
Us, unto whom a purer faith is given. 
As our best birthright it behoves to hold 
The precious charge ; but, oh, beware the 

leaven 
Which makes the heart of charity grow cold ! 
We own one Shepherd, we shall be at last one fold. 

• 25. 
Thinkest thou the little company who here 
Pour forth their hymn devout at close of day, 
Feel it no aid that those who hold them dear, 
At the same hour the self-same homage pay, 
Commending them to Heaven when far away ? 
That the sweet bells are heard in solemn chime 
Through all the happy towns of Paraguay, 
Where now their brethren in one point of time 
Join in the general prayer, with sympathy sub- 
lime? 

26. 
That'to the glorious Mother of their Lord 
Whole Christendom that hour its homage pays? 
From court and cottage that with one accord 
Ascends the universal strain of praise ? 
Amid the crowded city's restless ways, 
One reverential thought pervades the throng; 
The traveller on his lonely road obeys 
The sacred hour, and as he fares along. 
Inspirit hears and joins his household's even-song. 

7. 
What if they think that every prayer enroU'd 
Shall one day in their good account appear ; 
That guardian Angels hover round and fold 
Their wings in adoration while they hear ; 
Ministrant Spirits through the ethereal sphere 
Waft it with joy, and to the grateful theme, 
Well pleased, the Mighty Mother bends her ear? 
A vain delusion this we rightly deem : 
Yet what they feel is not a mere illusive dream. 

28. 
That prayer perform' d, around the fire reclined 
Beneath the leafy canopy they lay 
Their hmbs : the Indians soon to sleep resign'd ; 
And the good Father with that toilsome day 
Fatigued, full fain to sleep, — if sleep he may, — 
Whom all tormenting insects there assail ; 
More to be dreaded these than bea.st.=! of prey 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



23 



Against whom strength may cope, or skill pre- 
vail ; 
But art of man against these enemies must fail. 

2y. 

Patience itself, that should the sovereign cure 
For ills that touch ourselves alone, supply, 

■ Lends little aid to one who must endure 
This plague : the small tormentors fill the skj'', 
And swarm about their prey ; there he must lie 
And sufier while the hours of darkness wear; 
At times he utters with a deep-drawn sigh 
Some name adored, in accents of despair 

Breathed sorrowfully forth, half murmur and half 
prayer. 

30. 
Welcome to him the earliest gleam of light ; 
Welcome to him the earliest sound of day ; 
That, ii'om the sufferings of that weary night 
Released, he may resum.e his willing way, 
Well pleased again the perils to essay 
Of that drear wilderness, with hope renew'd : 
Success with all his labours overpay ; 
A quest like his is cheerfully pursued ; 
The heart is happy still that is intent on good. 

31. 
And now where Empalado's waters creep 
Through low and level shores of woodland vnde, 
They come; prepared to cross the sluggish deep, 
An ill-shaped coracle of hardest hide. 
Ruder than ever Cambrian fisher plied 
Where Towey and the salt-sea waters meet, 
The Indians launch ; they steady it and guide, 
Winning their way with arms and practised 

feet, 
While in the tottering boat the Father keeps 

his seat. 

32. 
For three long summer days on every side 
They search in vain the sylvcin solitude ; 
The fourth a human footstep is espied, 
And through the mazes of the pathless wood 
With hound-like skill and hawk-like eye pur- 
sued ; 
For keen upon their pious quest are they 
As e'er were hunters on the track of blood. 
Where softer ground or trodden herbs betray 
The slightest mark of men, they there explore 
the way. 

33. 
More cautious when more certain of the trace, 
In silence they proceed ; not like a crew 
Of jovial hunters, who the joyous chase 
With hound and horn in open field pursue. 
Cheering their way with jubilant halloo. 
And hurrying forward to their spoil desired, 
The panting game before them, full in view ; 
Humaner thoughts this little band inspired, 
Yet with a hope as high their gentle hearts were 
fired. 

34. 
Nor is their virtuous hope devoid of fear ; 
The perils of that enterprise they know ; 
Some savage horde may have its fastness here, 
A race to whom a stranger is a foe. 
Who not for friendly words, nor proffer'd show 



Of gifis, will peace or parley entertam. 

If by such hands their blameless blood should 

flow 
To serve the Lamb who for their sins was slain, 
Blessed indeed their lot, for so to die is gain ! 

35. 
Them, thus pursuing where the track may lead, 
A human voice arrests upon their way ; 
They stop, and thither, whence the sounds 

proceed, 
All eyes are turn'd in wonder, — not dismay. 
For sure such sounds might charm all fear 

away ; 
No nightingale whose brooding mate is nigh. 
From some sequester'd bower at close of day, 
No lark rejoicing in the oiiient sky. 
Ever pour'd forth so wild a strain of melody. 

36. 
The voice which through the ringing forest floats 
Is one which having ne'er been taught the skill 
Of marshalling sweet words to sweeter notes, 
Utters all unpremeditate, at will, 
A modulated sequence, loud and shrill. 
Of inarticulate and long-breathed sound. 
Varying its tones with rise, and fall, and trill, 
Till all the solitary woods around 
With that far-piercing power of melody resound. 

37. 
In mute astonishment attent to hear. 
As if by some enchantment held, they stood. 
With bending head, fix'd eye, and eager ear, 
And hand upraised in warning attitude 
To check all speech or step that might intrude 
On that sweet strain. Them leaving, thus spell- 
bound, 
A little way alone into the wood 
The Father gently moved toward the sound, 
Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground. 

38. 
Anon advancing thus the trees between. 
He saw beside her bower the songstress wild, 
Not distant far, himself the while unseen. 
Mooma it was, that happy maiden mild. 
Who, in the sunshine, like a careless child 
Of nature, in her joy was caroling. 
A heavier heart than his it had beguiled 
So to have heard so fair a creature sing 
The strains which she had learnt from all sweet 
birds of spring. 

39. 
For these had been her teachers, these alone ; 
And she, in many an emulous essay. 
At length into a discant of her own 
Had blended all their notes, a wild display 
Of sounds in rich, irregular array ; 
And now as blithe as bird in vernal bower, 
Pour'd ill full flow the unexpressive lay. 
Rejoicing in her consciousness of power, 
But in the inborn sense of harmony yet more. 

40. 
In joy had she begun the ambitious song. 
With rapid interchange of sink and swell , 
And sometimes high the note was rais' d, and long 
Produced, with shake and effort sensible 
As if the voice exulted there to dwell ; 



ROBERT SOU THEY 



But when she could no more that pitch sustain, 
So thrillingly attuned the cadence fell, 
That with the music of its dying strain 
She moved herself to tears of pleasurable pain. 

41. 
It might be deem'd some dirn presage possess'd 
The virgin's soul ; that some mysterious sense 
Of change to come, upon her mind impress'd, 
Had then call'd forth, e'er she departed thence, 
A requiem to their days of innocence. 
For what thou losest in thy native shade 
There is one change alone that may compense, 
O Mooma, innocent and simple maid, 
Only one change, and it will not be long delay'd ! 

. 42. 
When now the Father issued from the wood 
Into that little glade in open sight, 
Like one entranced, beholding him, she stood; 
Yet had she more .of wonder than affright, 
Yet less of wonder than of dread delight, 
When thus the actual vision came in view ; 
For instantly the maiden read aright 
Wherefore he came ; his garb and beard she 
knew; 
All that her mother heard had then indeed been 



43. 
Nor was the Father fill'd with less surprise ; 
He too strange fancies well might entertain, 
When this so fair a creature met his eyes. 
He might have thought her not of mortal strain ; 
Rather, as bards of yore were wont to feign, 
A nymph divine of Mondai's secret stream ; 
Or haply of Diana's woodland train ; 
For in her beauty Mooma such might seem. 
Being less a child of earth than like a poet's 
dream. 

44. 
No art of barbarous ornament had scarr'd 
And stain'd her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face ; 
Nor ever yet had evil passion marr'd 
In her sweet countenance the natural grace 
Of innocence and youth ; nor was there trace 
Of sorrow, or of hardening want and care. 
Strange was it in this wild and savage place. 
Which seem'd to be for beasts a fitting lair. 
Thus to behold a maid so gentle and so fair. 

4,5. 
Across her shoulders was a hammock flung ; 
By night it was the maiden's bed, by day 
Her only garment. Round her as it hung. 
In short, unequal folds of loose array. 
The open meshes, when she moves, display 
Her form. She stood with fix'd and wondering 

eyes ; 
And trembling like a leaf upon the spray. 
Even for excess of joy, with eager cries 
She call'd her mother forth to share that glad 



surprise. 



46. 



At that unwonted call, with quicken' d pace. 
The matron hurried thither, half in fear. 
How strange to Monnema a stranger's face ! 
How strange it was a stranger's voice to hear ! 
How strangely to her disaccustom'd ear 



Came even the accents of her native tongue ! 
But when she saw lier countrymen appear. 
Tears for that unexpected blessing sprung, 
And once again she felt as if her heart were young. 

47. 
Soon was her melancholy story told, 
And glad consent unto that Father good 
Was given, that they lo join his happy fold 
Would leave with him their forest solitude. 
Why comes not now Yeruti from the wood ? 
Why tarrieth he so late this blessed day ? 
They long to see their joy in his renew' d, 
And look impatiently toward his way. 
And think they hear his step, and chide his long 
delay. 

48. 
He comes at length, a happy man, to find 
His only dream of hope fulfill' d at last. 
The sunshine of his all-beheving mind 
There is no doubt or fear to overcast ; 
No chilling forethought checks his bliss ; the 

past 
Leaves no regret for him, and all to come 
Is change, and wonder, and delight. How fast 
Hath busy fancy conjured up a sum 
Of joys unknown, whereof the expectance makes 

him dumb I 

49. 
O happy day, the Messenger of Heaven 
Hath found them in their lonely dwelling-place ! 
happy day, to them it would be given 
To share in that Eternal Mother's grace. 
And one day see in Heaven her glorious face. 
Where Angels round her mercy-throne adore 1 
Now shall they mingle with the human race, 
Sequester'd from their fellow-kind no more ; 
joy of joys supreme ! O bliss for them in store! 

50. 
Full of such hopes this night they lay them 

down, 
But, not as they were wont, this night to rest. 
Their old tranquillity of heart is gone ; 
The peace wherewith till now they have been 

blest 
Hath taken its departure. In the breast 
Fast following thoughts and busy fancies 

throng : 
Their sleep itself is feverish, and possess'd 
With dreams that to the wakeful mind belong ; 
To Mooma and the youth then first the night 

seem'd long. 

51. 
Day comes, and now a first and last farewell 
To that fair bower within their native wood. 
Their quiet nest till now. The bird may 

dwell 
Henceforth in safety there, and rear her brood, 
And beasts and reptiles undisturb'd intrude ; 
Reckless of this, the simple tenants go, 
Emerging fi-ora their peaceful sohtude, 
To mingle with the world, — but not to know 
Its crimes, nor to partake its cares, nor feel its> 

woe. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



26 



CANTO IV. 



1. 



The bells rung blithely from St. Mary's tower 
When in St. Joachin's the news was told 
That Dobrizhoffer from his quest that hour 
Drew nigh : the glad Guaranies, young and old, 
Throng through the gate, rejoicing to behold 
His face again ; and all with heartfelt glee 
Welcome the Pastor to his peaceful fold, 
Where so beloved amid his flock was he, 
That this return was like a day of jubilee. 

2. 
How more than strange, how marvellous a sight 
To the nev7 comers was this multitude ! 
Something like fear was mingled with affright, 
When they the busy scene of turmoil view'd ; 
Wonder itself the sense of joy subdued. 
And with its all unwonted weight oppress'd 
These children of the quiet solitude ; 
And now and then a sigh that heaved the breast 
Unconsciously bewray 'd their feeling of unrest. 

3. 
Not more prodigious than that little town 
■ Seem'd to these comers, were the pomp and 

power 
To us of ancient Rome in her renown ; 
Nor the elder Babylon, or ere that hour 
When her high gardens, and her cloud-capt 

tower. 
And her broad walls before the Persian fell : 
Nor those dread fanes on Nile's forsaken shore, 
Whose ruins yet their pristine grandeur tell. 
Wherein the demon Gods themselves might deign, 
to dwell. 



But if, all humble as it was, that scene 
Possess' d a poor and uninstructed mind 
With awe, the thoughtful spirit, well I ween, 
Something to move its wonder there might find, 
Something of consolation for its kind, 
Some hope and earnest of a happier age, 
When vain pursuits no more the heart shall 

blind, 
Rut Faith the evils of this earth assuage, 
And to all souls assure their heavenly heritage. 

5. 
Yes, for m history's mournful map, the eye 
On Paraguay, as on a sunny spot, 
May rest complacent : to humanity. 
There, and there only, hath a peaceful lot 
Been granted, by Ambition troubled not. 
By Avarice undebased, exempt from care, 
By perilous passions undisturb'd. And what 
If Glory never rear'd her standard there. 
Nor with her clarion blast awoke the slumbering 



Content and cheerful Piety were found 
Within those humble walls. From youth to age 
The simple dwellers paced their even round 
Of duty, not desiring to engage 
Upon the busy world's contentious stage, 
Whose ways they wisely had been train'd to 
dread : 

4 



Their inoffensive lives in pupilage 
Perpetually, but peacefully they led, 
From all temptation saved, and sure of daily bread. 

7. 
They on the Jesuit, who was nothmg loath, 
Reposed alike their conscience and their cares ; 
And he, with equal faith, the trust of both 
Accepted and discharged. The bliss is theirs 
Of that entire dependence that prepares 
Entire submission, let what may befall ; 
And his whole careful course of hfe declares 
That for their good he holds them thus in thrall. 
Their Father and their Friend, Priest, Ruler, all 
in all. 

8. 
Food, raiment, shelter, safety, he provides ; 
No forecast, no anxieties have they ; 
The Jesuit governs, and instructs, and guides ; 
Their part it is to honour and obey. 
Like children under wise parental sway. 
All thoughts and wishes are to him confess'd; 
And when, at length, in hfe's last weary day, 
In sure and certain hope they sink to rest. 
By him their eyes are closed, by him their 
burial blest. 



Deem not their lives of happiness devoid. 
Though thus the years their course obscurely 

fill; 
In rural and in household arts employ' d. 
And many a pleasing task of phant skill, 
For emulation here unmix'd with ill. 
Sufficient scope was given. Each had assign' d 
His proper part, which yet left free the will ; 
So well they knew to mould the ductile mind 
By whom the scheme of that wise order was com- 
bined. 

10. 

It was a land of priestcraft, but the Priest 
Believed himself the fables that he taught : 
Corrupt their forms, and yet those forms at 

least 
Preserv'd a salutary faith that wrought, 
Maugre the alloy, the saving end it sought. 
Benevolence had gain'd such empire there. 
That even superstition had been brought 
An aspect of humanity to wear. 
And make the weal of man its first and only care. 

IL 

Nor lack'd they store of innocent delight. 
Music and song, and dance and proud array, 
Whate'er might win the ear, or charm the sight; 
Banners and pageantry in rich display 
Brought forth upon some Saint's high holyday. 
The ahar dress' d, the church with garlands 

hung. 
Arches and floral bowers beside the way, 
And festal tables spread for old and young. 
Gladness in every heart, and mirth on every 
tongue. 

12. 
Thou who despisest so debased a fate. 
As in the pride of wisdom thou mayst call 
These meek, submissive Indians' low estate, 
Look round the world, and see where over all 



26 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



Injurious passions hold mankind in thrall, 
How barbarous Force asserts a ruthless reign, 
Or Mammon, o'er his portion of the ball, 
Hath learn'd a baser empire to maintain — 
Mammon, the god of all who give their souls to 
gain. 

13. 
Behold the fraudful arts, the covert strife, 
The jarring interests that engross mankind ; 
The low pursuits, the selfish aims of life ; 
Studies that weary and contract the mind. 
That bring no joy, and leave no peace behind ; 
And Death approaching to dissolve the spell ! 
The immortal soul, which hath so long been 

blind. 
Recovers then clear sight, and sees too well 
The error of its ways, when irretrievable. 

14. 
Far happier the Guaranies' humble race. 
With whom, in dutiful contentment wise, 
The gentle virtues had their dwelling-place. 
With them the dear, domestic charities 
Sustain'd no blight from fortune ; natural ties 
There sufTer'd no divorcement, save alone 
That which in course of nature might arise ; 
No artificial wants and ills were known ; 
But there they dwelt as if the world were all their 
own. 



Obedience in its laws that takes delight 
Was theirs ; simplicity that knows no art ; 
Love, friendship, grateful duty in its height ; 
Meekness and truth, that keep all strife apart. 
And faith and hope which elevate the heart 
Upon its heavenly heritage intent. 
Poor, erring, self-tormentor that thou art, 
Man ! and on thine own undoing bent. 
Wherewith canst thou be blest, if not with these 
content ? 

16. 
Mild pupils in submission's perfect school, 
Two thousaiid souls were gather' d here, and 

here 
Beneath the Jesuit's all-embracing rale 
They dw"elt, obeying him with love sincere. 
That never knew distrust, nor felt a fear. 
Nor anxious thought which wears the heart 

away. 
Sacred to them their laws, their Ruler dear ; 
Humbler or happier none could be than they. 
Who knew it for their good in all things to obey. 

17. 
The Patron Saint, from whom their town was 

named, 
Was that St. Joachiii, who, legends say, 
Unto the Saints in Limbo first proclaim'd 
The Advent. Being permitted, on the day 
That Death enlarged him from this mortal clay. 
His daughter's high election to behold, 
Thither his soul, glad herald, wing'd its way. 
And to the Prophets and the Patriarchs old 
The tidhigs of great joy and near deliverance told. 

18. 
There on the altar was his image set, 
The lamp before it burning night and day, 



And there was incensed, when his votaries met 
Before the sacred shrine, their beads to say, 
And for his fancied intercession pray, 
Devoutly as in faith they bent the knee. 
Such adoration they were taught to pay : 
Good man, how little had he ween'd that he 
Should thus obtain a place in Rome's idolatry ! 

19. 
But chiefly there the Mother of our Lord, 
His blessed daughter, by the multitude 
Was for their special patroness adored. 
Amid the square on high her image stood, 
Clasping the Babe in her beatitude. 
The Babe Divine on whom she fix'd her sight ; 
And in their hearts, albe the work was rude, 
It rais'd the thought of all-commanding might, 
Combin'd with boundless love and mercy infinite. 

20. 
To this great family the Jesuit brought 
His new-found children now ; for young and old 
He deem'd alike his children while he wrought 
For their salvation, — seeking to unfold 
The saving mysteries in the creed enroH'd, 
To their slow minds, that could but ill conceive 
The import of the mighty truths he told. 
But errors they have none to which they cleave, 
And whatsoe'er he tells they wiUingly believe. 

21. 
Safe from that pride of ignorance were they 
That with small knowledge thinks itself full 

wise. 
How at believing aught should these delay. 
When every where new objects met their eyes 
To fill the soul with wonder and surprise ? 
Not of itself, but by temptation bred, 
In man doth impious unbelief arise ; 
It is our instinct to beUeve and dread ; 
God bids us love, and then our faith is perfected. 

22. 
Quick to believe, and slow to comprehend, 
Like children, unto all the teacher taught 
Submissively an easy ear they lend; 
And to the font at once he might have brought 
These converts, if the Father had not thought 
Theirs was a case for wise and safe delay. 
Lest lightly learn'd might lightly be forgot ; 
And meanwhile due instruction day by day 
Would to their opening minds the sense of truth 
convey. 

23. 
Of this they reck'd not whether soon or late ; 
For overpowering wonderment possess'd 
Their faculties ; and in this new estate 
Strange sights, and sounds, and thoughts, well 

nigh oppress' d 
Their sense, and raised a turmoil in the breast 
Resenting less of pleasure than of pain ; 
And sleep aflTorded them no natural rest. 
But in their dreams, a mix'd, disorder'd train, 
The busy scenes of day disturb' d their hearts 
again. 

24. 
Even when the spirit to that secret wood 
Return'd, slow Mondai's silent stream beside, 
No longer there it found the solitude 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



27 



Which late it left : strange faces were descried, 
Voices, and sounds of music far and wide, 
And buildings seemed to tower amid the trees, 
And forms of men and beasts on every side, 
As ever-wakeful fancy hears and sees 
All things that it had heard, and seen, and more 
than these. 

25. 
For in their sleep strange forms deform'd they 

saw 
Of frightful fiends, their ghostly enemies, 
And souls who must abide the rigorous law 
Weltering in fire, and there with dolorous criea 
Blaspheming roll around their hopeless eyes ; 
And those who doom'd a shorter term to bear 
In penal flames, look upward to the skies, 
Seeking and finding consolation there. 
And feel, like dew from heaven, the precious aid 

of prayer. 

26. 
And Angels who around their glorious Queen 
In adoration bent their heads abased ; 
And infant faces in their dreams were seen 
Hovering on cherub-wings ; and Spirits placed 
To be their guards invisible, who chased 
With fiery arms their fiendish foes away ; ' 
Such visions overheated fancy traced. 
Peopling the night with a confused array 
That made its hours of rest more restless than the 
day. 

27. 
To all who from an old erratic course 
Of life, within the Jesuit's fold were led, 
The change was perilous. They felt the force 
Of habit, when, till then in forests bred, 
A thick, perpetual umbrage overhead. 
They came to dwell in open light and air. 
This ill the Fathers long had learnt to dread. 
And still devised such means as might prepare 
The new-reclaim'd unhurt this total change to 
bear. 

28. 
All thoughts and occupations to commute, 
To change their air, their water, and their food, 
And those old habits suddenly uproot, 
Conform' d to which the vital powers pursued 
Their functions, — such mutation is too rude 
For man's fine frame unshaken to sustain. 
And these poor children of the solitude 
Began erelong to pay the bitter pain 
That their new way of life brought with it in its 
train. 

29. 
On Monneina the apprehended ill 
Came first ; the matron sunk beneath the weight 
Of a strong malady, whose force no skill 
In heaHng might avert or mitigate. 
Yet, happy in her children's safe estate. 
Her thankfulness for them she still express'd; 
And yielding then complacently to fate, 
With Christian rites her passing hour was 

bless'd. 
And with a Christian's hope she was consign'd to 

rest. 



30. 

They laid her in the Garden of the Dead ; 
Such as a Christian burial-place should be 
Was that fair spot, where every grave was 

spread 
With flowers, and not a weed to spring was free; 
But the pure blossoms of fhe orange-tree 
Dropp'd like a shower of fragrance on the bier ; 
And palms, the type of immortality. 
Planted in stately colonnades appear. 
That all was verdent there throughout the unvary- 
ing year. 

31. 
Nor ever did irreverent feet intrude 
Within that sacred spot ; nor sound of mirth, 
Unseemly there, profane the solitude. 
Where solemnly committed earth to earth, 
Waiting the summons for their second birth, 
Whole generations in Death's peaceful fold 
Collected lay ; green innocence, ripe worth. 
Youth full of hope, and age whose days were 
told, 
Compress'd alike into that mass of mortal mould. 

32. 
Mortal, and yet at the Archangel's voice 
To put on immortahty. That call 
Shall one day make the sentient dust rejoice ; 
These bodies then shall rise, and cast off all 
Corruption, with whate'er of earthly thrall 
Had clogg'd the heavenly image, then set free. 
How then should Death a Christian's heart 

appal ? 
Lo, Heaven for you is open ; — enter, ye 
Children of God, and heirs of his eternity '. 

33. 

This hope supported Mooma, hand in hand 

When viith Yeruti at the grave she stood. 

Less even now of death they understand 

Than of the joys eternal that ensued ; 

The bliss of infinite beatitude 

To them had been their teacher's favourite 

theme. 
Wherewith their hearts so fully were imbued, 
That it the sole reahty might seem, 
Life, death, and all things else, a shadow or a 

dream. 

34. 
Yes, so possess' d with that best hope were they, 
That if the heavens had opened overhead, 
And the Archangel with his trump that day 
To judgment had convoked the quick and dead. 
They would have heard the summons not with 

dread, 
But in the joy of faith that knows no fear ; 
Come, Lord ! come quickly ! would this pair 

have said, 
And thou, Queen of men and Angels dear, 
Lift us, whom thou hast loved, into thy happy 

sphere ! 

35. 
They wept not at the grave, though over- 
wrought 
With ieehngs there as if the heart would break. 



28 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Some haply might have deem'd they suflfered 

not; 
Yet they who look'd upon that Maiden meek 
Might see what deep emotion blanched her 

cheek. 
An inward light there v/as which fiU'd her eyes, 
And told, more forcibly than words could 



That this disruption of her earliest Ties 
'([ad shaken mind and frame in all their faculties. 



It was not passion only that disturb' d 
Her gentle nature thus ; it was not grief; 
Nor human feeling by the effort curb'd 
Of some misdeeming duty, when relief 
Were surely to be found, albeit brief, 
If sorrow at its springs might freely flow ; 
Nor yet repining, stronger than belief 
In its first force, that shook the Maiden so. 
Though these alone might that frail fabric over- 
throw. 

37. 
The seeds of death were in her at that hour ; 
Soon was their quickening and their growth 

display'd ; 
Thenceforth she droop' d and wither' d like a 

flower, 
Which, when it flourish'd in its native shade, 
Some cliild to his own garden hath convey'd, 
And planted in the sun, to pine away. 
Thus was the gentle Mooma seen to fade, 
Not under sharp disease, but day by day 
Losing the powers of life in visible decay. 

38. 
The sunny hue that tinged her cheek was gone ; 
A deathy paleness settled in its stead ; 
The light of joy which in her eyes had shone, 
Now hke a lamp that is no longer fed 
Grew dim ; but when she raised her heavy head. 
Some proffer'd help of kindness to partake. 
Those feeble eyes a languid lustre shed, 
And her sad smile of thankfulness would wake 
Grief even in callous hearis for that sweet suf- 
ferer's sake. 

39. 
How had Yeruti borne to see her fade ? 
But he was spared the lamentable sight, 
Himself upon the bed of sickness laid. 
Joy of his heart, and of his eyes the light, 
Had Mooma been to him, his soul's delight. 
On whom his mind forever was intent, 
His darling thought by day, his dream by night, 
The playmate of his youth in mercy sent. 
With whom his hfe had passed in peacefulest 
content. 

40. 
Well was it for the youth, and well for her. 
As there in placid helplessness she lay, 
He was not present with his love to stir. 
Emotions that might shake her feeble clay. 
And rouse up in her heart a strong array 
Of feelings, hurtful only when they bind 
To earth the soul that soon must pass away. 
But this was spared them ; and no pain of mind 
To trouble her had she, instinctively resign' d. 



41. 
Nor was there wanting to the sufferers aught 
Of careful kindness to alleviate 
The affliction ; for the universal thought 
In that poor town was of their sad estate, ' 
And what might best relieve or mitigate 
Their case, what help of nature or of art; 
And many were the prayers compassionate 
That the good Saints their healing would im- 
part. 
Breathed in that maid's behalf from many a tender 
heart. "^ 

42. 
And vows were made for her, if vows might 

save ; 
She for herself the while preferr'd no prayer ; 
For when she stood beside her Mother's grave, 
Her earthly hopes and thoughts had ended there. 
Her only longing now was, free as air 
From this obstructive flesh to take her flight 
For Paradise, and seek her Mother there. 
And then, regaining her beloved sight. 
Rest in the eternal sense of undisturb'd delight. 

43. 
Her heart was there, and there she felt and 

knew 
That soon full surely should her spirit be. 
And who can tell what foretastes might ensue 
To one, whose soul, from all earth's thraldom 

free, 
Was waiting thus for immortality ? 
Sometimes she spake with short and hurried 

breath. 
As if some happy sight she seem'd to see, 
While, in the fulness of a perfect faith, 
Even with a lover's hope, she lay and iook'd for 

death. 

44. 
1 said that for herself the patient maid 
Preferr'd no prayer ; but oft her feeble tongue 
And feebler breath a voice of praise essay'd ; 
And duly when the vesper bell was rung, 
Her evening hymn in faint accord she sung 
So piously, that they who gathered round. 
Awe-stricken on her heavenly accents hung, 
As though they thought it were no mortal sound, 
But that the place whereon they stood was holy 
ground. 

45. 
At such an hour, when Dobrizhofler stood 
Beside her bed, oh ! how unlike, he thought. 
This voice to that which, ringing through th© 

wood, 
Had led him to the secret bower he sought ! 
And was it then for this that he had brought 
That harmless household from their native 

shade ? 
Death had already been the mother's lot ; 
And this fair Mooma, was she form'd to fade 
So soon, — so soon must she in earth's cold lap be 

laid? 

46. 
Yet he had no misgiving at the sight ; 
And wherefore should he ? He had acted well, 
And deeming of the ways of God aright. 
Knew that to such as these, whate'er befell 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY, 



29 



Must needs for them be best. But who could 

dwell 
Unmoved upon the fate of one so young, 
So blithesome late ? What marvel if tears fell 
From that good man as over her he hung, 
And that the prayers he said came faltering from 
his tongue ! 

47. 
She saw him weep, and she could understand 
The cause thus tremulously that made him 

speak. 
By his emotion moved, she took his hand ; 
A gleam of pleasure o'er her pallid cheek 
Paat, while she look'd at him with meaning- 
meek. 
And for a little while, as loath to part, 
Detaining him, her fingers, lank and weak, 
Play'd with their hold ; then letting him depart, 
She gave him a slow smile that touched him to 
the heart. 

48. 
Mourn not for her I for what hath life to give 
That should detain her ready spirit here ? 
Thinkost thou that it were worth a wish to live. 
Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere ? 
That simple heart, that innocence sincere 
The world would stain. Fitter she ne'er could be 
For the great change ; and now that change is 

near, 
Oh, who would keep her soul front being free ? 
Maiden beloved of Heaven, to die is best for thee ! 

49. 
Slie hath pass'd away, and on her lips a smile 
Hath settled, fix'd in death. Judged they aright, 
Or suffered they their fancy to beguile 
The reason, who believed that she had sight 
Of Heaven before her spirit took its flight ; 
That Angels waited round her lowly bed ; 
And that, in that last effort of delight. 
When lifting up her dying arms, she said, 
I come '. a ray from heaven upon her face was 
shed ? 

50, 
St. Jocichin's had never seen a day 
Of such profuse and general grief before, 
A.S when, with tapers, dirge, and long array. 
The Maiden's body to the grave they bore. 
All eyes, all hearts, her early death deplore ; 
Yet, wondering at the fortune they lament, 
They the wise ways of Providence adore. 
By whom the Pastor surely had been sent. 
When to the Mondai woods upon his quest he 
went. 

51. 

This was, indeed, a chosen family, 
For Heaven's especial favour mark'd, they said; 
Shut out from all mankind they seem'd to be ; 
Y"et mercifully there were visited, 
That so within the fold they might be led. 
Then call'd away to bhss. Already two 
In their baptismal innocence were dead ; 
The third was on the bed of death they knew. 
And in the appointed course must presently 



52. 
They marveli'd, therefore, when the youth 

once more 
Rose from his bed, and walk'd abroad again ; 
Severe had been the malady, and sore 
The trial, while life struggled to maintain 
Its seat against the sharp assaults of pain : 
But hfe in him was vigorous ; long he lay- • 
Ere it could its ascendency regain; 
Then, when the natural powers resumed their 

sway, 
All trace of late disease past rapidly away. 

53. 

The first enquiry, when liis mind was free, 
Was for his Sister. She was gone, they said, 
Gone to her Mother, evermore to be 
With her in Heaven. At this no tears he shed, 
Nor was he seen to sorrow for the dead ; 
But took the fatal tidings in such part 
As if a dull, unfeeling nature bred 
His unconcern ; for hard would seem the heart 
To which a loss like his no suffering could impart. 

54. 
How little do they see what is, who frame 
Their hasty judgment upon that v/hich seems ? 
Waters that babble on their way proclaim 
A shallowness ; but in their strength deep 

streams 
Flow silently. Of death Yeruti deems 
Not as an ill, but as the last great good, 
Compared wherewith all other he esteems 
Transient and void : how then should thought 

intrude 
Of sorrow in his heart for their beatitude ? 

55. 
While dwelling in their sylvan solitude 
Less had Yeruti learn' d to entertain 
A sense of age than death. He understood 
Something of death from creatures he had slain ; 
But here the ills which follow in the train 
Of age had first to him been manifest, — 
The shrunken form, the limbs that move with 

pain, 
The faihng sense, infirmity, unrest, — 
That in his heart he said to die betimes was beet. 

56. 
Nor had he lost the dead : they v.'ere but gone 
Before him, whither he should shortly go. 
Their robes of glory they had first put on ; 
He, cumber'd with mortahty, below 
Must yet abide awhile, content to know 
He should not wait in long expectance here. 
What cause then for repining, or for woe ? 
Soon shall he join them in their heavenly sphere. 
And often, even now, he knew that they were 
near. 

57. 
'Twas but in open day to close his eyes, 
And shut out the unprofitable view 
Of all this weary world's realities. 
And forthwith, even as if they Hved anew, 
The dead were with him ; features, form, and 

hue. 
And looks, and gestures, were restored again; 
Their actual presence in his heart he knew ; 



30 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



And when their converse was disturb'd, oh, then 
How flat and stale it was to mix with living men ! 

58. 
But not the less, whate'er was to be done, 
With living men he took his part content, 
At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one 
Whose spirit, wholly on obedience bent, 
To every task its prompt attention lent. 
Alert in labour he among the best ; 
And when to church the congregation went, 
None more exact than he to cross his breast, 
And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest. 

59. 
Cheerful he was, almost like one elate 
With wine, before it hath disturb'd his power 
Of reason. Yet he seem'd to feel the weight 
Of time ; for always, when from yonder tower 
He heard the clock tell out the passing hour, 
The sound appeared to give him some delight ; 
And when the evening shades began to lower. 
Then was he seen to watch the fading light 
As\if his heart rejoiced at the return of night. 

60. 
The old man, to whom he had been given in 

care. 
To Dobrizhoffer came one day, and said, 
The trouble which our youth was thought to 

bear 
With such indifference hath deranged his head. 
He says that he is nightly visited ; 
His Mother and his Sister come and say 
That he must give this message from the dead. 
Not to defer his baptism, and delay 
A soul upon the earth which should no longer stay. 

61. 
A dream the Jesuit deem'd it i a deceit 
Upon itself by feverish fancy wrought ; 
A mere delusion, which it were not meet 
To censure, lest the youth's disiemper'd thought 
Might thereby be to further error brought ; 
But he himself its vanity would find, — 
They argued thus, — if it were noticed not. 
His baptism was in fitting time design'd, 
The father said, and then dismiss'd it frona his 
mind. 

62. 
But the old Indian came again ere long 
With the same tale, and freely then confess'd 
His doubt that he had done Yeruti wrong ; 
For something more than common seem'd im- 

press'd ; 
And now he thought that certes it were best 
From the youth's lips hig own account to hear; 
Haply the father then to his request 
Might yield, regarding his desire sincere, 
Norwait for further time if there were aught to fear. 

63. 
Considerately the Jesuit heard, and bade 
The youth be called. Yeruti told his tale. 
Nightly these blessed spirits came, he said, 
To warn him he must come within the pale 
Of Christ without delay ; nor must he fail 
This warning to their pastor to repeat. 
Till the renewed entreaty should prevail. 
Life's business then for him would be complete, 
And 'twas to teil him this they left their starry seat. 



64. 



Came they to him in dreams ? — he couid not fell; 
Sleeping or waking now small difierence made ; 
For even, while he slept, he knew full well 
That his dear Mother and that darling Maid 
Both in the Garden of the Dead were laid ; 
And yet he saw them as in life, the same, 
Save only that in radiant robes array'd, 
And round about their presence when they came 
There shone an effluent light as of a harmless 

flame. > 

65. 
And where he was he knew, the time, the 

place, — 
All circumstantial things to him were clear. 
His own heart undisturb'd. His Mother's face 
How could he choose but know ; or, knowing, 

fear 
Her presence and that Maid's, to him more dear 
Than all that had been left him now below ? 
Their love had drawn them from their happy 

sjihere ; 
That dearest love unchanged they came to show; 
And he must be baptized, and then he too might go. 
66. 
With searching ken the Jesuit, while he spake 
Perused him, if in countenance or tone 
Aught might be found appearing to partake 
Of madness. Mark of passion there was none : 
.None of derangement : in his eye alone, 
As from a hidden fountain emanate, 
Something of an unusual brightness shone : 
But neither word nor look betrayed a state 
Of wandering, and liis speech, though earnest, 

was sedate. 

67. 
Regular his pulse, from all disorder free, 
The vital powers perform'd their part assign'd ; 
And to whate'er was ask'd collectedly 
He answer'd. Nothing troubled him in mind ; 
Why should it ? Were not all around him kind ? 
Did not all love him with a love sincere, 
And seem in serving him a joy to find ? 
He had no want, no pain, no grief, no fear ; 
But he must be baptized ; he could not tarry here, 

68. 
Thy will be done, Father in heaven who art ! 
The pastor said, nor longer now denied ; 
But with a weight of awe upon his heart 
Enter'd the church, and there, the font beside 
With holy water, chrism, and salt applied, 
Perform'd in all solemnity the rite. 
His feeling was that hour with fear allied ; 
Yeruti' s was a sense of pure delight, 

And while he knelt his eyes seem'd larger and 
more bright. 

69. 
His wish hath been obtain'd ; and this being 

done. 
His soul was to its full desire content. 
The day in its accustom'd course pass'd on ; 
The Indian mark'd him ere to rest he went, 
How o'er his beads, as he was wont, he bent, 
And then, like one who casts all care aside. 
Lay down. The old man fear'd no ill event. 
When, " Ye are come for me !" Yeruti cried j 

" Yes, I am ready now !" and instantly he died 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



31 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance 
to any poems in our language. This species of com- 
position has become popular in Germany, and I was 
induced to attempt it by what was told me of the 
German Idyls by my friend Mr. William Taylor of 
Norwich. So far, therefore, these pieces may be 
deemed imitations, though I am not acquainted with 
the German language at present, and have never 
seen any translations or specimens in this kind. 

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from 
Tityrus and Corydon dovs^n to our English Strephons 
and Thirsisses. No kind of poetry can boast of more 
illustrious names, or is more distinguished by the 
servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral wri- 
ters, "more silly than their sheep," have, like their 
sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. 
Gay struck into a new path. His eclogues were the 
only ones which interested me when I was a boy, 
and did not know they were burlesque. The subject 
would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the 
place for it. 
1799. 



THE OLD MANSION HOUSE. 

STRANGER. 

Old friend ! why, you seem bent on parish duty, 
Breaking the highway stones, — and 'tis a task 
Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like yours ! 

OLD MAN. 

Why, yes ! for one with such a weight of years 
Upon his back ! — I've lived here, man and boy, 
In this same parish, well nigh the full age 
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten. 
I can remember, sixty years ago, 
The beautifying of this mansion here. 
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire, 
Came to the estate. 

.STRANGER. 

Why, then you have outlasted 
All his improvements, for you see they're making 
Great alterations here. 

OLD MAN. 

Ay — great indeed ! 
And if my poor old Lady could rise up — 
God rest her soul ! — 'twould grieve her to behold 
What wicked work is here. 

STRANGER. 

They've set about it 
right good earnest. All the front is gone ; 
Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road [too 
Round to the door. There were some yew trees 
Stood in the court — 

OLD MAN. 

Ay, Master ! fine old trees ! 
Lord bless us I I have heard my father say 
His grandfather could just remember back 
When they were planted there. It was my task 
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me; 
All straight and smooth, and like a great green 
wall! 



My poor old lady many a time would come 
And tell me where to clip, for she had play'd 
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride 
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, 
On their new-fangled whimseys ! we shall have 
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs 
And your pert poplar- trees; — I could as soon 
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them 
down ! 

STRANGER. 

But 'twill be hghter and more cheerful now ; 
A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road 
That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate. 
I hke a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ; 
And then there's some variety about it. 
In spring the lilac, and the snow-ball flower, 
And the laburnum with its golden strings 
Waving in the wind ; and when the autumn comes, 
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash, 
With pines enough in winter to look green. 
And show that something lives. Sure this is better 
Than a great hedge of yew, making it look 
All the year round like winter, and forever 
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under 
Wither'd and bare. [boughs, 

OLD MAN. 

Ay ! so the new Squire thinks * 
And pretty work he makes of it I What 'tis 
To have a stranger come to an old house ! 

STRANGER. 

It seems you know him not ? 

OLD MAN. 

No, Sir, not I, 
They tell me he's expected daily now ; 
But in my Lady's time he never came 
But once, for they v/ere very distant kin. 
If he had play'd about here when a child 
In that fore court, and eat the 5'evv-berries, 
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine 

flowers, 
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart 
To mar all thus ! 

STRANGER. 

Come ! come ! all is not wrong ; 
Those old dark windows — 

OLD MAN. 

They're demolish'd too, — 
As if he could not see through casement glass ! 
The very red-breasts, that so regular 
Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, 
Won't know the windows now ! 

STRANGER. 

May, they were small, 
And then so darken'd round with jessamine. 
Harbouring the vermin ; — yet I could have wish'd 
That jessamine had been saved, which canopied, 
And bower'd, and lined the porch. 

OLD MAN. 

It did one good 
To pass within ten yards, when 'twas in blossom. 
There was a sweet-brier, too, that grew beside ; 
My Lady loved at evening to sit there 
And knit ; and her old dog lay at her feet 



34 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 



Were busy with her name. She had to bear 
The sharper sorrow of neglect from him 
Whom she had loved too dearly. Once he wrote ; 
But only once that drop of comfort came 
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness ; 
And when his parents had some tidings from him, 
There was no mention of poor Hannah there, 
Or 'twas the cold enquiry, more unkind 
Than silence. So she pined and pined away, 
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd; 
Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest 
From labour, knitting there with lifted arms, 
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother 
Omitted no kind office, working for her. 
Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd 
Enough to keep hfe struggling, and prolong 
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay 
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out 
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts 
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, 
That she could make no effort to express 
Affection for her infant ; and the child, 
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, 
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too 
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth. 
Finding her only comfort in the thought 
Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. 
There had she now, in that last home, been laid, 
And all was over now, — sickness and grief. 
Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence, — 
Their work was done. The school-boys, as they 

sport 
In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away 
From the fresh grave till grass should cover it ; 
Nature would do that office soon ; and none 
Who trod upon the senseless turf would think 
Of what a world of woes lay buried there i 
Burton, near Christ Church, 1797. 



IV. 
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 

WOMAN. 

Sir, for the love of God, some small relief 
To a poor woman. 

TRAVELLER. 

Whither are you bound ? 
'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, 
No house for miles around us, and the way 
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 
Makes one's teeth chatter ; and the very Sun, 
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night ! 

WOMAN. 

Ay, Sir, 
'Tis cutting keen. I smart at every breath ; 
Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's 

end. 
For the way is long before me, and my feet, 
God help me ! sore with travelling. I would 

gladly, 
If it pleased God, at once lie down and die. 



TRAVELLER. 

Nay, nay, cheer up ! a httle food and rest 
Will comfort you ; and then your journey's end 
May make amends for all. You shake your head, 
And weep. Is it some mournfal business then 
That leads you from your home ? 

WOMAN. 

Sir, I am going 
To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
In the late action, and in the hospital 
Dying, I fear me, now. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps your fears 
Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost. 
There may be still enough for comfort left ; 
An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart 
To keep hfe warm ; and he may live to talk 
With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd 

him. 
Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude 
Makes the maim'd Sailor happy. 

WOMAN. 

'Tis not that,— 
An arm or leg^I could have borne with thati 
It was no ball. Sir, but some cursed thing 
Which bursts* and burns, that hurt him. Some- 
thing, Sir, 
They do not use on board our English ships, 
It is so wicked ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Rascals ! a mean art 
Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain. 

WOMAN. 

Yes, Sir! andthey should show no mercy to them 

For making use of such unchristian arms. 

I had a letter from the hospital ; 

He got some friend to write it ; and he tells me 

That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, 

Burnt out. Alas '. that I should ever live 

To see this wretched day ! — They tell me, Sir, 

There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed 

' Tis a hard journey that I go upon 

To such a dismal end. 

TRAVELLER. 

He yet may live. 
But if the worst should chance, why, you must 

bear 
The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not 
Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen 
Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself, 
You will not in unpitied poverty 
Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, 
Amid the triumph of her victory. 
Remembers those who paid its price of blood. 
And with a noble charity relieves 
The widow and the orphan. 



* The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In 
the engagement between the Mars and L'Hertule, 
some of our sailors were shociiingly mangled by them: 
one, in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost 
both his eyes. It would be right and humane to em- 
ploy means of destruction, could they be discovered, 
powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies ; but to 
use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon 
the suflTerers in war, is altogether wicked. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES, 



35 



WOMAN. 

God reward them ! 
God bless them ! It will help me in my age, — 
Bu.' . Sir, it will not pay me for my child. 

TRAVELLER. 

Was he your only child ? 

WOMAN. 

My only one, 
The stay and comfort of my widowhood, 
A dear, good boy ! — When first he went to sea, 
I felt what it would come to, — something told me 
I should be childless soon. But tell me, Sir, 
If it be true that for a hurt hke his 
There is no cure. Please God to spare his life. 
Though he be bHnd, yet I should be so thankful ! 
I can remember there was a blind man 
Lived in our village, one from his youth up 
Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man; 
And he had none to tend on him so well 
As I would tend my boy. 

TRAVELLER. 

Of this be sure — 
His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help 
The land affords, as rightly is his due. 
Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you ? 
Was a seafaring life his early choice ? 



No, Sir ! poor fellow, — he was wise enough 

To be content at home, and 'twas a home 

As comfortable, Sir, even though I say it. 

As any in the country. He was left 

A little boy when his poor father died. 

Just old enough to totter by himself, 

And call his mother's name. We two were all. 

And as we were not left quite destitute. 

We bore up well. In the summer time I work'd 

Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting; 

And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel 

Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too. 

And never felt distress. So he grew up 

A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed. 

I taught him well ; there was not in the parish 

A child who said his prayers more regular. 

Or answered readier through his Catechism. 

If I had foreseen this ! but 'tis a blessing 

We don't know what we're born to ! 



TRAVELLER. 



But how came it 



He chose to be a Sailor ? 



WOMAN. 

You shall hear. Sir. 
As he grew up he used to watch the birds 
In the corn, — child's work, you know, and easily 

done. 
'Tis an idle sort of task ; so he built up 
A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain ; 
And then he took, for very idleness, 
To making traps to catch the plunderers ; 
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, — 
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in. 
Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe 
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly — 
And I, poor foohsh woman ! I was pleased 



To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
What follow'd. Sir, from this unlucky skill. 
He did what he should not when he was older: 
I warn'd him oft enough ; but he was caught 
In wiling hares at last, and had his choice. 
The prison or the ship. 

TRAVELLER. 

The choice at least 
Was kindly left him ; and for broken laws 
This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. 

WOMAN. 

So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so; 
But 'twas a sad blow to me ! I was used 
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child ; — 
Now, if the wind blew rough, it made me start, 
And think of my poor boy tossing about 
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd 
To feel that it was hard to take him from me 
For such a little fault. But he was wrong, 
Oh, very wrong, — a murrain on his traps ! 
See what they've brought him to ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Well ! well ! take comfort; 
He will be taken care of, if he lives ; 
And should you lose your child, this is a country 
Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent 
To weep for him in want. 

WOMAN. 

Sir, I shall want 
No succour long. In the common course of 

years 
I soon must be at rest ; and 'tis a comfort. 
When grief is hard upon me, to reflect 
It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 
Westbziry, 1798. 



V. 
THE WITCH. 

NATHANIEL. 

Father ! here, father ! I have found a horse-shoe! ' 
Faith, it was just in time ; for t'other night 
I laid two straws across at Margery's door ; 
And ever since I fear'd that she might do me 
A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy, 
Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, — 
I met him upon crutches, and he told me 
'Tv/as all her evil eye, 

FATHER. 

' Tis rare good luck ! 
I would have gladly given a crown for one, 
If 'twould have done as well. But where didst 
find it ? 

NATHANIEL. 

Down on the common ; I was going a-field, 
And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare ; 
He had hardly said " Good day," before I saw 
The shoe drop off. 'Twas just upon my tongiie 
To call him back ; — it makes no difference, does it, 
Because I know whose 'twas ? 



32 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



And slept in the sun ; 'twas an old favourite dog, — 

She did not love him less that he was old 

And feeble, and he always had a place 

By the fire-side : and when he died at last. 

She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. 

For she was good to all ! a woful day 

'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went ! 

STRANGER. 

They lost a friend then ? 



You're a stranger here, 
Or you wouldn't ask. that question. Were they 

sick? 
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs 
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at 

winter, 
When weekly she distributed the bread 
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear 
The blessings on her ! and I warrant them 
They were a blessing to her when her wealth 
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir ! 
It would have warmed your heart if you had seen 
Her Christmas kitchen, — how the blazing fire 
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs 
So cheerful red, — and as for mistletoe, — 
The finest bush that grew in the country round 
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went 
So bountiful about ! a Christmas cask. 
And 'twas a noble one, — God help me, Sir ! 
But I shall never see such days again. 

STRANGER. 

Things may be better yet than you suppose,^ 
And you should hope the best. 

. OLD MAN. 

It don't look well, — 
These alterations, Sir ! I'm an old man. 
And love the good old fashions ; we don't find 
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd 
All that my Lady loved ; her favourite walk 
Grubb'd up, — and they do say that the great row 
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top, 
They must fall too. Well ! well ! I did not think 
To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps 
A comfort I shan't live to see it long. 

STRANGER. 

But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, 
My friend ? 

OLD MAN. 

Mayhap they mayn't, Sir ; — for all that, 
I hke what I've been used to. I remember 
All this from a child up ; and now to lose it, 
'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left 
As 'twas ; — I go abroad, and only meet 
With men whose fathers I remember boys ; 
The brook that used to run before my door, 
That's gone to the great pond ; the trees I learnt 
To climb are down ; and I see nothing now 
That tells me of old times, — ^except the stones 
In the churchyard. You are young, Sir, and I 

hope 
Have many years in store, — but pray to God 
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. 



STRANGER. 

Well', well! you've one friend more than you're 

aware of. 
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours,- I 

warrant 
That's all you'll quarrel with : walk in and taste 
His beer, old friend I and see if your old Lady 
E'er broach'd a better cask. You did not knowme. 
But we're acquainted now. 'Twouldnot be easy 
To make you like the outside ; but within, 
That is not changed, my friend ! you'll always find 
The same old bounty and old welcome there. 
Weslhury, 1798. 



11. 

THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE. 

JANE. 

Harry '. I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round 
The fire, and Grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us 
One of her stories. 

HARRY. 

' Ay — dear Gradmamma '. 

A pretty story ! something dismal now ; 
A bloody murder. 

JANE. 

Or about a ghost. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know 
The other night, when I was telling ye [bled 
About the light in the churchyard, how you trem- 
Because the screech-owl hooted at the window. 
And would not go to bed. 

JANE. 

Why, Grandmamma. 
You said yourself you did not like to hear him 
Pray now ! — we won't be frightened. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

'Well, well, children 
But you've heard all my stories. — Let me see,- 
Did I never tell you how the smuggler murder'd 
The woman down at Pill ? 



No — never! never' 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Not how he cut her head off in the stable ? 

HARRY. 

Oh- — now I — do tell us that ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

You must have heard 
Your mother, children 1 often tell of her. 
She used to weed in the garden here, and worm 
Your uncle's dogs,* and serve the house vidth 

coal; 
And glad enough she was in winter time 
To drive her asses here ! It was cold work 



* I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is 
common in other parts of England. It is supposed to 
prevent the dogs from doing any mischief, should they 
afterwards become mad. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



33 



To follow the slow beasts through sleet and snow ; 
And here she found a comfortable meal, 
And a brave fire to thaw her ; for poor Moll 
Was always welcome. 

HARRY. 

Oh! 'twas blear-eyed Moll, 
The collier woman, — a great, ugly woman ; 
I've heard of her. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Ugly enough, poor soul '. 
At ten yard's distance, you could hardly tell 
If it were man or woman, for her voice 
Was rough as our old mastifTs, and she wore 
A man's old coat and hat : — and then her face I 
There was a merry story told of her. 
How, when the press-gang came to take her 

husband, 
As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, 
Dress'd John up in her night-cap, and herself 
Put on his clothes and went before the captain. 

JANE. 

And so they press' d a woman '. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

' Twas a trick 
She dearly loved to tell ; and all the country 
Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel 
For miles around. All weathers and all hours 
She cross'd the hill, as hardy as her beasts, 
Bearing the wind, and rain, and drifting snow, 
And if she did not reach her home at night. 
She laid her down in the stable with her asses, 
And slept as sound as they did. 



With her asses ! 

GRfANDMOTHER. 

Yes ; and she loved her beasts. For though, poor 

wretch. 
She was a terrible reprobate, and swore 
Like any trooper, she was always good 
To the dumb creatures ; never loaded them 
Beyond their strength; and rather, I believe. 
Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, 
Becajise, she said, they could not ask for food. 
I never saw her stick fall heavier on them 
Than just with its own weight. She little thought 
This tender-heartedness would cause her death ! 
There was a fellow who had oftentimes. 
As if he took dehght in cruelty, 
111 used her beasts. He was a man who lived 
By smuggling, and, — for she had often met him, 
Crossing the down at night, — she threaten'd him, 
If ever he abused them more, to inform 
f his unlawful ways. Well — so it was — 
'T .vas what they both were born to ! he provoked 

her : 
She laid an information ; and one morning 
They found her in the stable, her throat cut 
From ear to ear, till the head only hung 
Just by a bit of skin. 



Oh dear, oh dear ! 



HARRY. 

I hope they hung the man. 



GRANDMOTHER. 

They took htm up ; 
There was no proof; no one had seen the deed ; 
And he was set at liberty. But God, 
Whose eye beholdeth all things, He had seen 
The murder ; and the murderer knew that God 
Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, — 
But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand 
Of Heaven, — but nowhere could the murderer 

rest ; — 
A guilty conscience haunted him ; by day, 
By night, in company, in solitude. 
Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him 
The weight of blood. Her cries were in his ears ; 
Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her, 
Always he heard ; always he saw her stand 
Before his eyes ; even in the dead of night, 
Distinctly seen as though in the broad sun, 
She stood beside the murderer's bed, and yawn'd 
Her ghastly wound ; till life itself became 
A punishment at last he could not bear, 
And he confess'd it all, and gave himself 
To death ; so terrible, he said, it was 
To have a gtiilty conscience ! 



Was he hung, then! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man : 
Your uncles went to see him on his trial ; 
He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed, 
And such a horror in his meager face, 
They said he look'd like one who never slept, 
He begged the prayers of all who saw his end, 
And met liis death with fears that well might warn 
From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. 



Westhury, 1798. 



IIL 

HANNAH. 

Passing across a green and lonely lane, 

A funeral met our view. It was not here 

A sight of every day, as in the streets 

Of some great city , and we stopp'd and ask'd 

Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, 

They answer'd, of the village, who had pined 

Through the long course of eighteen painful 

months. 
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death 
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way 
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk 
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot, 
We wore away the time. But it was eve 
When homewardly I went, and in the air 
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade 
Which makes the eye turn inward : hearing then 
Over the vale the heavy toll of death 
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead ; 
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. 

She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, 
And he who should have cherish' d her, far off 
Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one, 
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 



36 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



FATHER. 

Why, no, it can't. 
The shoe's the same, you know; and you did 
find it, 

NATHANIEL. 

That mare of his has got a plaguy road 

To travel, father; — and if he should lame her, — 

For she is but tender-footed, — 

FATHER. 

Ay, indeed ! 
I should not Uke to see her Hmping back, 
Poor beast ! — But charity begins at home ; 
And, Nat, there's our own horse in such a way 
This morning ! 

NATHANIEL. 

Why, he han't been rid again ! 
Last night I hung a pebble by the manger, 
With a hole through, and every body says 
That 'tis a special charm against the hags. 

FATHER. 

It could not be a proper, natural hole then, 
Or 'twas not a right pebble ; — for I found him 
Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, 
And panting so ! Lord knows where he had been 
When we were all asleep, through bush and 

brake, 
Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch 
At such a deadly rate ! — 

NATHANIEL. 

By land and water. 
Over the sea, perhaps ! — I have heard tell 
'Tis many thousand miles off at the end 
Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. 
They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear 
Some ointment over them, and then away 
Out at the window ! but 'tis worse than all 
To worry the poor beast so. Shame upon it 
That in a Christian country they should let 
Such creatures hve ! 



And when there's such plain proof I 
I did but threaten her because she robb'd 
Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind 
That made me shake to hear it in my bed. 
How came it that that storm unroof d my barn. 
And only mine in the parish ? — Look at her, 
And that's enough ; she has it in her face ! — 
A pair of large, dead eyes, sunk in her head. 
Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles 

round ; 
A nose and chin that scarce leave room between 
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snufF; 
And when she speaks ! I'd sooner hear a raven 
Croak at my door! — She sits there, nose and 

knees, 
Smoke-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, 
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes 
Shine like old Beelzebub's ; and to be sure 
It must be one of his imps ! — Ay, nail it hard. 

NATHANIEL. 

I wish old Margery heard the hammer go ! 
She'd curse the music ! 



FATHER. 

Here's the Curate coming, 
He ought to rid the parish of such vermin ! 
In the old times they used to hunt them out, 
And hang them without mercy; but, Lord bless 

us ! 
The world is grown so wicked ! 

CURATE. 

Good day. Farmer 
Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold ? 

NATHANIEL. 

A horse-shoe. Sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcraft 
And we're afraid of Margery. 



What can you fear from her ? 



Poor old woman 1 



What can we fear ! 
Who lamed the Miller's boy ? who raised the wind 
That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye 

think 
Rides my poor horse a' nights? who mocks the 

hounds ? 
But let me catch her at that trick again. 
And I've a silver bullet ready for her. 
One that shall lame her, double how she will. 

NATHANIEL. 

What makes her sit there moping by herself. 
With no soul near her but that great black cat ? 
And do but look at her ! 

CURATE. 

Poor wretch ! half blind 
And crooked with her years, without a child 
Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed 
To have her very miseries made her crimes ! 
I met her but last week in that hard frost 
Which made my young limbs ache, and when I 

ask'd 
What brought her out in the snow, the poor old 

woman 
Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad 
And pick the hedges, just to keep herself 
From perishing with cold, — because no neighbour 
Had pity on her age ; and then she cried. 
And said the children pelted her with snow-balls. 
And wish'd that she were dead. 

FATHER. 

I wish she was I 
She has plagued the parish long enough '. 

CURATE. 

Shame, Farmer ! 
Is that the charity your Bible teaches ? 

FATHER. 

My Bible does not teach me to love witches. 
I know what's charity ; who pays his tithes 
And poor-rates readier ? 

CURATE. 

Who can better do it 'i 
You've been a prudent and industrious man, 
And God has blest your labour. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



37 



FATHER. 

Why, thank God, Sir, 
I've had no reason to complain of fortune. 

CURATE. 

Complain? why, you are wealthy! All the parish 
Look up to you. 

FATHER. 

Perhaps, Sir, I could telV 
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. 

CURATE. 

You can afford a little to the poor ; 

And then, what's better still, you have the heart 

To give from your abundance. 



God forbid 



I should want charity ! 



CURATE. 

Oh ! 'tis a comfort 
To think at last of riches well employ'd! 
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth 
Of a good deed at that most awful hour 
When riches profit not. 

Farmer, I'm going 
To visit Margery. She is sick, I hear ; — 
Old, poor, and sick ! a miserable lot ; 
And death will be a blessing. You might send her 
Some little matter, something comfortable. 
That she may go down easier to the grave, 
And bless you when she dies. 

FATHER. 

What ! is she going ? 
Well, God forgive her then, if she has dealt 
In the black art ! I'll tell my dame of it, 
And she shall send her something. 



And take my thanks for hers. 



So I'll say ; 

[Goes. 



FATHER. 

That's a good man, 
That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit 
The poor in sickness; but he don't believe 
In witchcraft, and that is not like a Christian. 

NATHANIEL. 

And so old Margery's dying ! 



She may recover : 
Westhury, 1798. 



FATHER. 

But you know 
so drive t'other nail in. 



VL 



THE RUINED COTTAGE. 

Ay, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine 

eye ; — 
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. 
Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower 
Still fresh and fragrant ; and yon hollyhock 
That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall 
Peers taller, lifting, column-hke, a stem 
Bright with its roseate blossoms. I have seen 



Many an old convent reverend in decay, 
And many a time have trod the castle courts 
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike 
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts 
As this poor cottage. Look ! its little hatch 
Fleeced with that gray and wintry m.oss; the roof 
Part moulder' d in ; the rest o'ergrown with weeds, 
House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener 

moss ; 
So Nature steals on all the works of man ; 
Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself 
His perishable piles. 

I led thee here, 
Charles, not without design ; for this hath been 
My favourite walk even since I was a boy ; 
And I remember, Charles, this ruin here, 
The neatest comfortable dwelling-place ! 
That when I read in those dear books which first 
Woke in my heart the love of poesy, 
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt. 
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess 
Forsook his quest to learn the shepherd's lore. 
My fancy drew from this the little hut 
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love. 
Or where the gentle Calidore at eve 
Led Pastorella home. There was not then 
A weed where all these nettles overtop 
The garden-wall ; but sweet-brier, scenting sweet 
The morning air ; rosemary and marjoram. 
All wholesome herbs ; and then, that woodbine 

wreathed 
So lavishly around the pillar'd porch 
Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, 
After a truant absence hastening home, 
I could not choose but pass with slacken' d speed 
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed 
Is this poor cottage ! and its dwellers, Charles ! — 
Theirs is a simple, melancholy tale, — 
There's scarce a village but can fellow it : 
And yet, methinks, it will not weary thee, 
And should not be untold. 

A widow here 
Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed 
Above the reach of pinching poverty. 
She lived on some small pittance, which sufficed 
In better times, the needful calls of life. 
Not without comfort. I remember her 
Sitting at evening in that open door- way, 
And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her 
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles 
To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not 
To twirl her lengthening thread ; or in the garden, 
On some dry summer evening, walking round 
To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd 
Upon the ivory handle of her stick, 
To some carnation whose o'erheavy head 
Needed support ; while with the watering-pot 
Joanna follow'd, and refresh'd and trimm'd 
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child. 
As lovely and as happy then as youth 
And innocence could make her. 

Charles, it seems 
As though I were a boy again, and all 
The mediate years, with their vicissitudes, 
A half- forgotten dream. I see the Maid 
So comely in her Sunday dress ! her hair. 
Her bright, brown hair, wreathed in contracting 
curls ; 



38 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



And then her cheek ! it was a red and white 
That made the deUcate hues of art look loathsome. 
The countrymen, who on their way to church 
Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear 
The bell's last summons, and in idleness 
Watching the stream below, would all look up 
When she passed by. And her old Grandam, 

Charles, — 
When I have heard some erring infidel 
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, 
Inspiring superstitious wretchedness. 
Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love 
The Sabbath-day ; and many a time hath cross'd 
These fields in rain and through the winter snows, 
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot, 
Wishing the weary service at its end, [there, 
flave wonder' d wherefore that good dame came 
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside 
A comfortable fire. 

One only care 
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, 
Her path was plain before her, and the close 
Of her long journey near. But then her child 
Soon to be left alone in this bad world, — 
That was a thought which many a winter night 
Had kept her sleepless ; and when prudent love 
In something better than a servant's state 
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang 
Like parting life to part with her dear girl. 

One summer Charles, when at the holydays 
Return'd from school, I visited again 
My old, accustom' d walks, and found in them 
A joy almost like meeting an old friend, 
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds 
Already crowding the neglected flowers. 
Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced, 
Had play 'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd 
Her grandara's heart. She did not suffer long ; 
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief 
Brought her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. 

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes, 
And think of other days. It wakes in me 
A transient sadness ; but the feelings, Charles, 
Which ever with these recollections rise, 
I trust in God they will not pass away. 

Westhury, 1799. 



VII. 
THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. 

JAMES. 

What, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us 
On this sad business. 

GREGORY. 

Ay, James, I am come, 
But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man ! 
Where shall we meet the corpse ? 

JAMES. 

Some hour from hence, 
By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. 
This is not as it should be, Gregory, 



Old men to follow young ones to the grave 
This morning, when I heard the bell stiike out, 
I thought that I had never heard it toll 
So dismally before. 

GREGORY. 

Well, well ! my friend, 
'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. 
But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, 
One born so well, who might have blest us all 
Many long years ! — 

JAMES. 

And then the family j 

Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name 
Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! 
A name that has gone down from sire to son 
So many generations ! — Many a time 
Poor master Edward, who is now a corpse, 
When but a child would come to me and lead mt 
To the great family-iree, and beg of me 
To tell him stories of his ancestors, ■ 

Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land S 

With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry " 
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars; 
And then his little eyes would kindle so 
To hear of their brave deeds ! I used to think 
The bravest of them all would not out-do 
My darling boy. 

GREGORY. 

This comes of your great schools 
And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians. 
That would have made him wiser than his fathers! 



If his poor father, Gregory, had but Hved, 
Things would not have been so. He, poor good 

man. 
Had little of book-learning ; but there lived not 
A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, 
One better to his tenants. When he died 
There was not a dry eye for miles around. 
Gregory, I thought that I could never know 
A sadder day than that ; but what was that. 
Compared wiih this day's sorrow ? 

GREGORY. 

I remember 

Eight months ago, when the young Squire began 
To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd 
The martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd 
Under that roof, — ay ! long before my memory. 
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought 
No good could follow. 



Poor young man I I loved him 
Like my own child. I loved the family ! 
Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant 
For five-and-forty years. I lived with them 
When his good father brought my Lady home ; 
And when the young Squire was born, it did me 

good 
To hear the bells so merrily announce 
An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow — 
I feel it, Gregory, heavier than the weight 
Of threescore years. He was a noble lad; 
I loved him dearly. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES, 



39 



GREGORY. 

Every body loved him ; 
Such a fine, generous, open-hearled Youth ! 
When he came home from school at holydays, 
How I rejoiced to see him ! He was sure 
To come and ask of me what birds there were 
About my fields ; and when I found a covey, 
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game 
More charily, than I have kept them safe 
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well 
Upon a fine, sharp morning after them. 
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush' d 
With such a wholesome ruddiness, — ah, James, 
But he was sadly changed when he came down 
To keep his birth-day. 

JAMES. 

Changed ! why, Gregory, 
'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd 
Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin, 
His cheek so delicate sallow, and his eyes 
Had such a dim and rakish hoUowness ; 
And when he came to shake me by the hand. 
And spoke as kindly to me as he used, 
I hardly knew the voice. 

GREGORY. 

It Struck a damp 
On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble Ox 
That smoked before us, and the old October 
Went merrily in overflowing cans ; 
But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart 
Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank 
His health, the thought came over me what cause 
We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. 
Poor Gentleman ! to think, ten months ago 
He came of age, and now ! — 

JAMES. 

I fear'd it then ! 
He look'd to me as one that was not long 
For this world's busuiess. 

GREGORY. 

When the Doctor sent him 
Abroad to try the air, it made me certain 
That all was over. There's but Uttle hope. 
Melhinks, that foreign parts can help a man 
When his own mother country will not do. 
The last time he came down, these bells rung so, 
I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple 

down ; 
And now that dismal toll ! I would have staid 
Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty : 
I am an old tenant of the family. 
Born on the estate ; and now that I've outlived it, 
Why, 'tis but right to see it to the grave. 
Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? 

JAMES. 

But little. 
And that not well. But be he what he may. 
Matters not much to me. The love I bore 
To the old family will not easily fix 
Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill? 
Is it not the funeral ? 

GREGORY. 

'Tis, I think, some horsemen. 
Ay i there are the black cloaks ; and now I see 
The white plumes on the hearse. 



JAMES, 

Between the trees ;— 

' Tis hid behind them now. 

GREGORY. 

Ay ! now we see it, 
And there's the coaches following ; we shall meet 
About the bridge. Would that this day were over ! 
I wonder whose turn's next. 

JAMES. 

God above knows, 
When youth is summon' d, what must age expect ! 
God make us ready, Gregory, when it comes ! 
Westbury, 1799. 



VIII. 
THE WEDDING. 

TRAVELLER. 

I PKAY you, wherefore are the village bells 
Ringing so merrily ? 

WOMAN. 

A wedding, Sir, — 
Two of the village folk. And they are right 
To make a merry time on't while they may! . 
Come twelvemonths hence, I warrtot them 

they'd go 
To church again more willingly than now, 
If all might be undone. 

TRAVELLER. 

An ill-match'd pair. 
So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age ? 

WOMAN. 

No, — both are young enough. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps the man, then, 
A lazy idler, -T-one who better likes 
The alehouse than his work ? 

WOMAN. 

Why, Sir, for that, 
He always was a well-condition'd lad, 
One who'd work hard and well ; and as for drink, 
Save now and then, mayhap, at Christmas time, 
Sober as wife could wish. 

TRAVELLER. 

Then is the girl 
A shrew, or else untidy ; — one to welcome 
Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue, 
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home 
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so ? 

WOMAN. 

She's notable enough ; and as for temper, 

The best good-humour' d girl! You see yon 

house. 
There by the aspen-tree, whose gray leaves shine 
In the wind? she Uved a servant at the farm. 
And often, as I came to weeding here, 
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows 
So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her, 
Because it made me think upon the days 
When I had got as little on my mind. 



40 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



And -was as cheerful too. But she would marry, 
And folks must reap as they have sown. God 
help her ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined, 
Why should not both be happy ? 



They've no money. 

TRAVELLER. 

But both can work ; and sure as cheerfully 
She'd labour for herself as at the farm. 
And he won't work the worse because he knows 
That she will make his fire-side ready for him. 
And watch for his return. 



A little while. 



All very well. 



TRAVELLER. 

And what if they are poor 1 
Riches can't always purchase happiness ; 
And much we know will be expected there 
Where much is given. 

WOMAN. 

All this I have heard at church ! 
And when I walk in the church-yard, or have 

been 
By a death-bed, 'tis mighty comforting. 
But when I hear my children cry for hunger. 
And see them shiver in their rags, — God help me ! 
I pity those for whom these bells ring up 
So merrily upon their wedding-day, 
Because I think of mine. 

TRAVELLER. 

You have known trouble ; 
These haply may be happier. 

WOMAN. 

Why, for that, 
I've had my share ; some sickness and some 

sorrow. 
Well will it be for them to know no worse. 
Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell 
Than her wedding-peal. Sir, if I thought her fate 
Promised no better things. 

TRAVELLER. 

Sure, sure, good woman. 
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! 
All have their cares ; those who are poor want 

wealth ; 
They who have wealth want more ; so are we all 
Dissatisfied ; yet all live on, and each 
Has his own comforts. 

WOMAN. 

Sir ! d'ye see that horse 
Turn'd out to common here by the way-side ? 
He's high in bone ; you may tell every rib 
Even at this distance. Mind him ! how he turns 
His head, to drive away the flies that feed 
Onhisgall'd shoulder ! There's just grass enough 
To disappoint his whetted appetite. 
You see his comforts, Sir ! 



TRAVELLER. 

A wretched beast S 
Hard labour and worse usage he endures 
From some bad master. But the lot of the poor 
Is not like his. 

WOMAN. 

In truth it is not, Sir ! 
For when the horse hes down at night, no carea 
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams : 
He knows no quarter-day ; and when he gets 
Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass. 
He has no hungry children to claim part 
Of his half-meal ! 

TRAVELLER. 

'Tis idleness makes want, 
And idle habits. If the man will go 
And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire. 
Whom can he blame if there be want at home ? 

WOMAN. 

Ay ! idleness ! the rich folks never fail 

To find some reason why the poor deserve 

Their miseries I — Is it idleness, I pray you. 

That brings the fever or the ague fit ? 

That makes the sick one's sickly appetite 

From dry bread and potatoes turn away ? 

Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 

For growing wants ? — Six years agone, these bells 

Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told 

What I might look for ; but I did not heed 

Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir; 

Knew never what it was to want a meal ; 

Lay down without one thought to keep me sleep 

less. 
Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday, 
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came, 
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband,— 
A towardly young man, and well to do, — 
He had his silver buckles and his v.'atch ; 
There was not in the village one who look'd 
Sprucer on holydays. We married. Sir, 
And we had children ; but while wants increased, 
Wages stood still. The silver buckles went ; 
So went the watch ; and when the holyday coat 
Was worn to work, no new* one in its place. 
For me — you see my rags ! but I deserve them, 
For wilfully, hke this new-married pair, 
I went to my undoing. 

TRAVELLER- 

But the parish — 

WOMAN. 

Ay, it falls heavy there ; and yet their pittance 
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect. 
To slave while there is strength ; in age the work- 
house ; 



* A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, 
"that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of 
changes in those nien he had been in the habit of em- 
ploying. Young men, he said, were generally neat in 
their appearance, active and cheerful,iill they became 
married and had a family, when he had observed that 
their silver buttons, buckles, and watches gradually 
disappeared, and their Sunday clothes became com- 
mon, without any other to supply their place,— &a£, 
said he, some good comes from this, for they will then 
work for whatever they can get." 

Note to Cottle's Malvern Hills. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



41 



A parish shell at last, and the Ihtle bell 
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Is this your child ? 

WOMAN. 

Ay, Sir; and were he dress'd 
And clean' d, he'd be as fine a boy to look on 
As the Squire's young master. These thin rags 

of his 
Let comfortably in the summer wind ; 
But when the winter comes, it pinches me 
To see the little wretch. I've three besides ; 
And, — God forgive me ! but I often wish 
To see them in their coffins — God reward you ! 
God bless you for your charity ! 

TRAVELLER. 

You have taught me 
To give sad meaning to the village bells ! 
Bristol, 1800. 



IX. 
THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. 

STRANGER. 

Whom are they ushering from the world, with all 
This pageantry and long parade of death ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

A long parade, indeed. Sir, and yet here 

You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 

A furlong further, carriage behind carriage. 

STRANGER. 

'Tis but a mournful sight ; and yet the pomp 
Tempts me to stand a gazer. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Yonder schoolboy. 
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
Of peace was nothing to the show ; and even 
The chairing of the members at election 
Would not have been a finer sight than this ; 
Only that red and green are prettier colours 
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold 
One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city, 
The envy and the boast of our exchange ; — 
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half- 
million, 
Screw'd down in yonder hearse ! 

STRANGER. 

Then he was born 
Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 

TOWNSMAN. 

When first I heard his death, that very wish 
Leap'd to my lips ; but now the closing scene 
Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts ; 
And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, 
There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
To sink me down. 

STRANGER. 

The camel and the needle, — 
Is that then in your mind ? 



TOWNSMAN. 

Even so. The text 
Is Gospel- wisdom. I would ride the camei,— 
Yea, leap him, flying, through the needle's eye, 
As easily as such a pamper'd soul 
Could pass the narrow gate. 

STRANGER. 

Your pardon. Sir, 
But sure this lack of Christian charhy 
Looks not hke Clu-istian truth. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Your pardon too. Sir, 
If, with this text before me, I should feel 
In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig- 
trees. 
With all their flourish and their leafiness. 
We have been told their destiny and use. 
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
Cumber the earth no longer. 

STRANGER 

Was his wealth 
Stored fraudfuUy, — the spoil of orphans wrong'd, 
And widows who had none to plead their right ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

All honest, open, honourable gains. 
Fair, legal interest, bonds and mortgages. 
Ships to the East and West. 

STRANGER. 

Why judge you then 
So hardly of the dead ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

For what he left 
Undone ; — for sins, not one of which is written 
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him, 
BeHeved no other Gods than tho.se of the Creed ; 
Bow'd to no idols, but his money-bags ; 
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house ; 
Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument 
To honour his dead father ; did no murder ; 
Never sustain' d an action for crim-con ; 
Never pick'd pockets ; never bore false witness ; 
And never, with that all-commanding wealth, 
Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass ! 

STRANGER. 

You knew him, then, it seems? 

TOWNSMAN. 

As all men know 
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders ; 
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 

STRANGER. 

Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir ! for often 
Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen. 
Freshening and giving life along its course. 

TOWNSMAN. 

We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
And livelier growth it gives ; — but as for this — 
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk ; 
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
But shme and foul corruption. 

STRANGER. 

Yet even iheee 

Are reservoirs whence public charity 
Still keeps her channels full. 



42 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



TOAVNSMAN. 

Now, Sir, you touch 
Upon the point. This man of half a million 
Had all these public virtues which you praise : 
But the poor man rung never at his door, 
And the old beggar, at the public gate, 
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand, 
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
His alms were money put to interest 
In the other world, — donations to keep open 
A running charity account with Heaven, — 
Retaining fees against the Last Assizes, 
When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
Shall bo required from all, and the old Arch- 
Lawyer 
Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 

STRANGER. 

I must needs 
Believe you, Sir : — these are your witnesses. 
These mourners here, who from their carriages. 
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes 
Some decent rheum ; the very hireling mute 
Bears not a face more blank of all emotion 
Than the old servant of the family ! 
How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Who should lament for him. Sir, in whose heart 
Love had no place, nor natural charity ? 
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step. 
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 
With creeping pace : she never raised her eyes 
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 
Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 
How could it be but thus ? Arithmetic 
Was the sole science he was ever taught ; 
The multiplication-table was his Creed, 
His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. 
When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 
The open air and sunshine of the fields. 
To give his blood its natural spring and play. 
He in a close and dusky counting-house 
Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his 

heart. 
So from the way in which he was train'd up 
His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moil'd. 
Poor muck- worm ! through his threescore years 

and ten ; 
And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on 

him, 
If that which served him for a soul were still 
Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 

STRANGER. 

Yet your next newspapers will blazon him 
For industry and honourable wealth 
A bright example. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even half a million 
Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his 
virtues 



Trimly set forth in lapidary lines. 

Faith with her torch beside, and little Gupida 

Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. 

Bristol, 1803. 



ODE 

ON 

THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER. 



Yes, — such as these were Heber's lineaments ; 

Such his capacious front. 

His comprehensive eye, 

His open brow serene. 

Such was the gentle countenance which bore 

Of generous feeling, and of golden truth, 

Sure Nature's sterling impress ; never there 

Unruly passion left 

Its ominous marks infix' d. 

Nor the worse die of evil habit set 

An inward stain ingrain' d. 

Such were the lips whose salient playfulness 

Enliven'd peaceful hours of private life; 

Whose eloquence 

Held congregations open ear'd. 

As from the heart it flow'd, a living stream, 

Of Christian wisdom, pure and undefiled. 

2. 

And what if there be those 

Who in the cabinet 

Of memory hold enshrined 

A livelier portraiture. 

And see in thought, as in their dreams, 

His actual image, verily produced? 

Yet shall this counterfeit convey 

To strangers, and preserve for after-time, 

All that could perish of him, — all that else 

Even now had past away ; 

For he hath taken with the Living Dead 

His honourable place, — 

Yea, with the Saints of God 

His holy habitation. Hearts, to which 

Through ages he shall speak, 

Will yearn towards him ; and they, too, (for such 

Will be,) who gird their loins 

With truth to follow him, 

Having the breastplate on of righteousness, 

The helmet of salvation, and the shield 

Of faith, — they too will gaze 

Upon his effigy 

With reverential love. 

Till they shall grow familiar with its lines, 

And know him when they see his face in Heaven, 



Ten years have held their course 

Since last I look'dupon 

That living countenance. 

When on Llangedwin's terraces we paced 

Together, to and fro. 

Partaking there its hospitality, 

We with its honoured master spent, 

Well-pleased, the social hours ; 



ODE ON THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER. 



43 



His friend and mine, — my earliest friend, whom I 
Have ever, through all changes, found the same 

From boyhood to gray hairs. 
In goodness, and in worth and warmth of heart. 

Together then we traced 

The grass-grown site, where armed feet once 

trod 

The threshold of Glendower's embattled hall; 

Together sought Melangel's lonely Church, 

Saw the dark yews, majestic in decay, 

Which in their flourishing strength 

Cyveilioc might have seen; 

Letter by letter traced the lines 

On Yorwerth's fabled tomb ; 

And curiously observed what vestiges, 

Mouldering and mutilate, 

Of Monacella's legend there are left, 

A tale humane, itself 

Well-nigh forgotten now : 

Together visited the ancient house 

Which from the hill-slope takes 

Its Cymric name euphonious ; there to view, 

Though drawn by some rude Umner inexpert, 

The faded portrait of that lady fair. 

Beside whose corpse her husband watch'd. 

And with perverted faith, 

Preposterously placed. 

Thought, obstinate in hopeless hope, to see 

The beautiful dead, by miracle, revive. 

4. 

The sunny recollections of those days 

Full soon were overcast, when Heber went 

Where half this wide world's circle lay 

Between us interposed. 

A messenger of love he went, 

A true Evangehst ; 

Not for ambition, nor for gain, 

Nor of constraint, save such as duty lays 

Upon the disciphned heart, 

Took he the overseeing on himself 

Of that wide flock dispersed, 

Which, till these latter times, 

Had there been left to stray 

Neglected all too long. 

For this great end. devotedly he went. 

Forsaking friends and kin. 

His own loved paths of pleasantness and peace, 

Books, leisure, privacy, 

Prospects (and not remote) of all wherewith 

Authority could dignify desert ; 

And, dearer far to him. 

Pursuits that with the learned and the wise 

Should have assured his name its lasting place. 

5. 

Large, England, is the debt 

Thou owest to Heathendom ; 

To India most of all, where Providence, 

Giving thee thy dominion there in trust. 

Upholds its baseless strength. 
All seas have seen thy red-cross flag 

In war triumphantly display'd ; 

Late only hast thou set that standard up 

On pagan shores in peace 1 

Yea, at this hour the cry of blood 

Riseth against thee from beneath the wheels 

Of that seven-headed Idol's car accursed ; 
Against thee, from the widow's funeral pile 



The smoke of human sacrifice 
Ascends, even now, to Heaven. 

6. 

The debt shall be discharged ; the crying sin 

Silenced ; the foul offence 

Forever done away. 

Thither our saintly Heber went, 

In promise and in pledge 

That England, from her guilty torpor roused, 

Should zealously and wisely undertake 

H^r awful task assign'd: 

Thither, devoted to the work, he went, 

There spent his precious life, 

There left his holy dust. 

7. 

How beautiful are the feet of him 

That bringeth good tidings, 

That publisheth peace, 

That bringeth good tidings of good, 

That proclaimeth salvation for men. 

Where'er the Christian Patriarch went, 

Honour and reverence heralded his way, 

And blessings followed him. 

The Malabar, the Moor, the Cingalese, 

Though unillumed by faith, 

Yet not the less admired 

The virtue that they saw. 

The European soldier, there so long 

Of needful and consolatory rites 

Injuriously deprived, 

Felt, at his presence, the neglected seed 

Of early piety 

Refresh'd, as with a quickening dew from Heaven. 

Native beUevers. wept with thankfulness. 

When on their heads he laid his hallowing hands ; 

And, if the Saints in bliss 

Be cognizant of aught that passeth here. 

It was a joy for Schv/artz 

To look from Paradise that hour. 

Upon his earthly flock. 

8. 

Ram boweth down, 

Creeshnaand Seeva stoop ; 

The Arabian Moon must wane to wax no more , 

And Ishmael's seed redeem'd. 

And Esau's — to their brotherhood. 

And to their better birthright then restored 

Shall within Israel's covenant be brotight. 

Drop down, ye Heavens, from above ! 

Ye skies, pour righteousness ! 

Open, thou Earth, and let 

Salvation be brought forth ! 

And sing ye, O ye Heavens, and shout, O Earth, 

With all thy hills and vales, 

Thy mountains and thy woods ; 

Break forth into a song, a jubilant song ; 

For by Himself the Lord hath sworn 

That every tongue to Him shall swear, 

To Him that every knee shall bow. 

9. 

Take comfort, then, my soul! 

Thy latter days on earth. 

Though few, shall not be evil, by this hope 

Supported, and enlighten'd on the way. 

O Reginald, one course 

Our studies, and our thoughts, 



44 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Our aspirations held, 
Wherein, but mostly in this blessed hope, 

We had a bond of union, closely knit 

In spirit, though, in this world's wilderness, 

Apart our lots were cast. 

Seldom we met ; but I knew well 

That whatsoe'er this never-idle hand 

Sent forth would find with thee 

Benign acceptance, to its full desert. 

For thou wart of that audience, — fit, though few, 

For whom I am content 

To live laborious days. 

Assured that after-years will ratify. 

Their honourable award. 

10. 
Hadst thou revisited thy native land. 

Mortality, and Time, 

And Change, must needs have made 

Our meeting mournful. Happy he 

Who to his rest is borne, 

In sure and certain hope, 

Before the hand of age 

Hath chill' d his faculties. 

Or sorrow reach' d him in his heart of hearts ! 

Most happy if he leave in his good name 

A light for those who follow him, 

And in his works a living seed 

Of good, prolific still. 

11. 

Yes, to the Christian, to the Heathen world, 

Heber, thou art not dead, — thou canst not die ! 

Nor can I think of thee as lost. 

A little portion of this little isle 

At first divided us ; then half the globe ; 

The same earth held us still ; but when, 

O Reginald, wert thou so near as now ? 

'Tis but the falling of a withered leaf, — 

The breaking of a shell, — 

The rending of a veil 1 

Oh, when that leaf shall fall, — 

That shell be burst, — that veil be rent, — may then 

My spirit be with thine ! 

Keswick, 1820. 



GOD'S JUDGMENT 



A WICKED BISHOP. 



Here foUoweth the History of HATTO, Archbishop of 
Mentz. 

11 hapned in the year 914, that there was an exceed- 
ing great famine in Germany, at what time Otho 
surnamed the Great was Emperor, and one Hatto, 
once Abbot of Fiilda, was Archbishop of Mentz, of 
the Bishops after Crescens and Crescentius the two 
and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after St. Bonifacius 
the thirteenth. This Hatto in the time of this great 
famine afore-mentioned, when he saw the poor peo 
pie of the country exceedingly oppressed with fa- 
mine, assembled a great company of them together 
into a Barne, and, like a most accursed and merci 
lesse caitiflfe, burnt up these poor innocent souls, that 
were so far from doubting any such matter, that they 
rather hoped to receive some comfort and relief at 
his bands. The reason that moved the prelat to 



commit that execrable impiety was, because he 
thought the famine would the sooner cease, if those 
unprofitable beggars that consumed more bread than 
they were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the 
world. For he said that those poor folks were like 
to Mice, that were good for nothing but to devour 
come. But God Almighty, the just avenger of the 
poor folks' quarrel, did not long suffer this hainous 
tyranny, this most detestable fact, unpunished. For 
he mustered up an army of Mice against the Arch- 
bishop, and sent them to persecute him as his furious 
Alastors, so that they afflicted him both day and 
night, and would not suffer him to take his rest in 
any place. Whereupon the Prelate, thinking that he 
should be secure from the injury of Mice if he were 
in a certain tower, that standeth in the Rhine near 
to the towne, betook himself unto the said tower as 
to a safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and 
locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes of 
Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and 
swumme unto him upon the top of the water to exe- 
cute the just judgment of God, and so at last he was 
most miserably devoured by those sillie creatures ; 
who pursued him with such bitter hostility, that it is 
recorded they scraped and knawed out his very 
name from the walls and tapistry wherein it was 
written, after they had so cruelly devoured his body. 
Wherefore the tower wherein he was eaten up by 
the Mice is shewn to this day, for a perpetual monu- 
ment to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and in- 
human tyranny of this impious Prelate, being situate 
in a little green Island in the midst of the Rhine near 
to the towne of Bingen, and is commonly called in 
the German Tongue the Mowse-turn. 

Coryat's Crudities, pp. 571, 572. 
Other authors who record this tale say that the Bishop 
was eaten by Rats. 



The summer and autumn had been so wet. 
That in winter the corn was growing yet ; 
'Twas a piteous sight, to see, all around. 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, 
For he had a plentiful last-year's store, 
And all the neighbourhood could tell 
His granaries were furnish'd well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 

To quiet the poor without delay ; 

He bade them to his great Barn repair, 

And they should have food for the winter there. 

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, 
The poor folk flock'd from far and near ; 
The great Barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door ; 
And while for mercy on Christ they call, 
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. 

" I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire !" quoth he, 
'■ And the country is greatly obliged to me, 
For ridding it in these times forlorn 
Of Rats that only consume the corn." 

So then to his palace returned he. 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent man ; 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 



KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 



45 



In the morning, as he enter'd the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 
A sweat \ike death all over him came, 
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm ; 
He had a countenance white with alarm ; 
" My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, 
And the Rats had eaten all your corn." 

Another came running presently, 
And he was pale as pale could be, — 
"Fly ! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, 
" Ten thousand Rats are coming this way, — 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday !" 

"I'll go to my tower on the E-hine," replied he, 
" 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; 
The walls are high, and the shores are steep. 
And the stream is strong, and the water deep." 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away. 
And he cross' d the Rhine ^vithout delay, 
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care 
All the vnndows, doors, and loop-holes there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes ; — 

But soon a scream made him arise ; 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 

He listen'd and look'd ; — it was only the Cat ; 
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that ; 
For she sat screaming, mad with fear 
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near. 

For they have swam, over the river so deep. 
And they have climb'd the shores so steep. 
And up the Tower their way is bent, 
To do the work for which they were sent. 

They are not to be told by the do'zen or score ; 
By thousands they come, and by myriads and 

more. 
Such numbers had never been heard of before; 
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. 

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell. 

As louder and louder drawing near 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door. 

And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour. 

And down from the ceiling, and up through the 

floor. 
From the right and the left, from behind and 

before. 
From within and without, from above and below, 
And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stones'; 
And now they pick the Bishop's bones ; 
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, 
For they were sent to do judgment on him ! 

Westbury, 1799. 



KING HENRY V. AND THE 
HERMIT OF DREUX. 



While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest 
Hermit, unknown to him, came and told him the 
great evils he brought on Christendom by his unjuat 
ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France, 
against all manner of right, and contrary to the will 
of God ; wherefore, in his holy name, he threatened 
him with a severe and sudden punishment if he de- 
sisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this ex- 
hortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion 
of the Dauphin's, and was but the more confirmed in 
his design. But the blow soon followed the threaten- 
ing; for, within some few months after, he was 
smitten with a strange and incurable disease. 

Mezetrav. 



He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp; 

Their heads the soldiers bent 
In silent reverence, or begg'd 

A blessing as he went ; 
And so the Hermit pass'd along. 

And reached the royal tent. 

King Henry sat in his tent alone ; 

The map before him lay ; 
Fresh conquests he was planning there 

To grace the future day. 

King Henry lifted up his eyes 

The intruder to behold ; 
With reverence he the hermit saw ; 

For the holy man was old ; 
His look was gentle as a Saint's, 

And yet his eye was bold. 

" Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs 
Which thou hast done this land ! 

King, repent in time, for know 
The judgment is at hand. 

" I have pass'd forty years of peace 

Beside the river Blaise ; 
But what a weight of woe hast thou 

Laid on my latter days 1 

" I used to see along the stream 

The white sail gliding down, 
That wafted food, in better times, 

To yonder peaceful town. 

" Henry ! I never now behold 

The white sail gliding down ; 
Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou 

Destroy thgit wretched town. 

" I used to hear the traveller's voice 

As here he pass'd along, 
Or maiden, as she loiter'd home 

Singing her even-song, 

" No traveller's voice may now be heard; 

In fear he hastens by ; 
But I have heard the village maid 

In vain for succour cry. 



46 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



" I used to sec the youths row down, 
And watch the dripping oar, 

As pleasantly their viol's tones 
Came soften' d to the shore. 

" King Henry, many a blapken'd corpse 

I now see floating down ! 
Thou man of blood ! repent in time, 

And leave this leaguer' d town." 

" I shall go on," King Henry cried, 
"And conquer this good land; 

Seest thou not. Hermit, that the Lord 
Hath given it to my hand ?" 

The Hermit heard King Henry speak, 
And angrily look'd down ; — 

His face was gentle, and for that 
More solemn was his frown. 

' ' What if no miracle from Heaven 
The murderer's arm control ; 

Think you for that the weight of blood 
Lies hghter on his soul ? 

" Thou conqueror King, repent in time, 

Or dread the coming woe ! 
For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, 

And soon shalt feel the blow !" 

King Henry forced a careless smile, 
As the Hermit went his way ; 

But Henry soon remember' d him 
Upon his dying day. 

Westhury, 1798. 



OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE, 

AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT. 



Recibi6 un Cavallero, paraque cultivasse sus tierras, a 
un Quintero, y paia pagarle algo adelantado le pidi6 
fiador ; y no teniendo quien le fiasse, le proineti6 de- 
lante del sepulcro de San Isidro que cumpliria su 
palabra, y si no, que el Santa le castigasse. Con lo 
qual, el Cavallero le pag6 toda su soldada, y le fi6. 
Mar desagradecido aquel hombre, no haciendo case 
de su promessa, se huy6, sin acabar de sirvir el tiempo 
concertado. Pass6 de noche sin reparar en ello, por 
]a Iglesia de San Andrfes, donde estaba el cuerpo del 
siervo de Dios. Fuh cosa maravillosa, que andando 
corriendo toda la noche, nose apart6 de la Iglesia, sino 
que toda se le fufe en dar mil bueltas al rededor de 
eUa, hasta que por la maiiana, yendo el amo k quex- 
arse de San Isidro, y pedirle cumpliesse su fianza, 
hall6 a su Quintero alii, dando mas y mas bueltas, 
sin poderse haver apartado de aquel sitio. Pidi6 
perdon al Santo, y a su amo, al qual satisflzo despues 
enteramente por su trabajo. — Villegas. ' Flos Sanc- 
torum. 



"If thy debtor be poor," old Christoval said, 
" Exact not too hardly thy due ; 

For he who preserves a poor man from want 
May preserve him from wickedness too. 



" If thy neighbour should sin," old Christoval said 

' O never unmerciful be ; 
But remember it is through the mercy of God 

That thou art not as sinful as he. 

" At sixty-and-seven, the hope of Heaven 
Is my comfort, through God's good grace; 

My summons, in truth, had I perish'd in youth, 
Must have been to a different place." 

" You shall have the farm, young Christoval," 

My master Henrique said : 
" But a surety provide, in whom I can confide 

That duly the rent shall be paid." 

I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth. 

And I knew not what to say 
We stood in the porch of St. Andrew's Church, 

And it was St. Isidro' s day. 

" Take St. Isidro for my pledge," 

I ventured to make reply ; 
" The Saint in Heaven may be my friend. 

But friendless on earth am I." 

We enter' d the Church, and went to his shrine, 

And I fell on my bended knee' — 
" I am friendless, holy Isidro, 

And therefore I call upon thee ! 

" I call upon thee my surety to be ; 

My purpose is honest and true ; 
And if ever I break my plighted word, 

O Saint, mayst thou make me rue !" 

I was idle, and quarter-day came on, 

And I had not the rent in store ; 
I fear'd St. Isidro's anger. 

But I dreaded my landlord more. 

So, on a dark night, I took my flight, 

And stole like a thief away ; 
It happen'd that by St. Andrew's Church 

The road I had chosen lay. 

As I past the Church door, I thought how I swore 

Upon St. Isidro's day ; 
That the Saint was so near increased my fear, 
And faster I hasten'd away. 

So all night long I hurried on, 

Pacing full many a mile, 
And knew not his avenging hand 

Was on me all the while. 

Weary I was, yet safe, I thought ; 

But when it was day-hght, 
I had, I found, been running round 

And round the Church all night. 

I shook hke a palsy, and fell on my knees, 

And for pardon devoutly I pray'd ; 
When my master came up—" What, Christoval ! 

You are here betimes !" he said. 

" I have been idle, good Master," said I, 
" Good Master, and I have done wrong ; 

And I have been running round the Church 
In penance all night long." 



CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.— KING CHARLEMAIN, 



47 



** If thou hast been idle," Henrique replied, 

" Henceforth thy faiih amend ! 
I will not oppress thee, Christoval, 

And the Saint may thy labour befriend." 

Homeward I went a penitent. 
And from that day I idled no more ; 

St. Isidro bless'd my industry. 
As he punish'd my sloth before. 

" When my debtor was poor," old Christoval 
said, 

" I have never exacted my due ; 
But remembering my master was good to me, 

I copied his goodness too. 

" When my neighbour hath sinn'd," old Christo- 
val said, 

" I judged not too hardly his sin, 
But thought of the night by St. Andrew's Church, 

And consider'd what I might have been." 

Westbury, 1798. 



CORNELIUS AGRIPPA; 

A BALLAD, 

OT A yOtTNG MAN THAT WOULD READ UNLAWFUL 
BOOKS, AND HOW HE WAS PUNISHED. 



VERY PITHY AND PROFITABLE. 



Cornelius Agrippa went out one day ; 
His Study he lock'd ere he went away. 
And he gave the key of the door to his wife, 
And charged her to keep it lock'd on her life. 

" And if any one ask my Study to see, 
I charge you to trust them not with the key ; 
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore. 
On your life let nobody enter that door." 

There lived a young man in the house, who in 

vain 
Access to that Study had sought to obtain ; 
And he begg'd and pray'd the books to see, 
Till the foolish woman gave him the key. 

On the Study-table a book there lay, 
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day; 
The letters were written with blood therein. 
And the leaves were made of dead men's skin ; — 

And these horrible leaves of magic between 
Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen, 
The likeness of things so foul to behold, 
That what they were is not fit to be told. 

The young man he began to read 
He knew not what ; but he would proceed, 
When there was heard a sound at the door, 
Which, as lie read on, grew more and more. 

And more and more the knocking grew ; 

The young man knew not what to do ; 

But, trembling, in fear he sat within, 

Till the door was broke, and the Devil came in. 



Two hideous horns on his head he had got. 
Like iron heated nine times red-hot ; 
The breath of h^s nostrils was brimstone blue, 
And his tail hke a fiery serpent grew. 

" Whatwouldst thou with me?" the Wicked One 

cried, 
But not a word the young man rephed ; 
Every hair on his head was standing upright, 
And his limbs hke a palsy shook with affright. 

" What wouldst thou with me ?" sried the Author 

of ill; 
But the wretched young man was silent still ; 
Not a word had his hps the power to say, 
And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. 

"Whatwouldst thou with me?" the third time 

he cries. 
And a flash of lightning came from his eyes, 
And he lifted his griffin claw in the air, 
And the young man had not strength for a prayer. 

His eyes red fire and fury dart 
As out he tore the young man's heart ; 
He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey ; 
And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away. 

THE moral. 

Henceforth let all young men take heed 
How in a Conjurer's books they read. 
Westbury, 1798. 



KING CHA^RLEMAIN. 



Francois Petrarque, fort renomme entre les Poetes 
., Italiens, discourant en un epistre son voyage de 
France et de rAllemaigne,nous raconte que passant 
par la ville d'Aix, il apprit de quelques Prestres une 
histoire prodigeuse qii'ils tenoient de main en main 
pour tres veritable. Qui estoit que Charles le Grand, 
apres avoir conquest^ plusieurs pays, s'esperdit de 
telle fagon en Tamour d'une simple femme, que met- 
tant tout honneur et reputation en arriere, il oublia 
non seulement les affaires de son royaume, mais 
aussi le soing de sa propre personne, au grand des- 
plaisir de chacun ; estant seulen-ent ententif a cour- 
tiser ceste dame : laquelle par bonheur commenca k 
s'aliter d'une grosse maladie, qui lui apporta la mort. 
Dont les Princes et grands Seigneurs furent fort re- 
jouis, esperansque par ceste mort, Charles reprei!- 
droit comme devant et ses esprits et les affaires du 
royaume en main: toutesfois il se trouva tenement 
infatu^ de ceste amour, qu' encores cherissoit-il ce 
cadaver, I'embrassant, baisant, accolant de la meme 
fa§on que devant, et au lieu de prester I'oreille aux 
legations qui luysurvenoient, il I'entretenoit de mille 
bayes, comme s'elle eust este pleine de vie. Ce corps 
commen§oit deja non seulement a mal sentlr, mais 
aussi se tournoit en putrefaction, et neantmoins n'y 
avoit aucun de ses favoris qui luy en osast parler; 
dont advint que I'Archevesque Turpin mieux advis^ 
que les autres, pourpensa que telle chose ne pouvolt 
estre advenue sans quelqiie sorcellerie. Au moyen 
deqiioy espiant un jour I'heure que le Roy s'estoit 
absent^ de la chambre, commenga de foiiiller le corps 
de toutes parts, finalement ttouva dans sa bouche au 
dessous de sa langue un anneau qu'il luy osta. Le 
jour mesme Charlemaigne retournant sur ses pre- 
mieres brisees, se trouva fort estonne de voir une 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



carcasse ainsipuante. Parquoy, comrae s'il se fust 
resveiUe d'un profond sommeil, commanda que Ton 
I'ensevelist promptement. Ce qui fut fait ; mais en 
contr' eschange de ceste folic, il tourna tous ses pen- 
semens vers FArchevesque porteur de cest anneau, 
ne pouvant estre de la en avant sans luy, et le sui- 



The physicians to counsel together repair, 
And with common consent, one and all they 

declare 
That his senses are bound by a spell. 

8. 



vant en tous les endroits. Quoy voyant ce sage Then, with relics protected, and confident grown, 



Prelat, et craignant que cest anneau ne tombast en 
mains de quelque autre, le jetta dans un lac prochain 
de la ville. Depuis lequel temps on dit que ce Roy 
se trouve si espris de ramour du lieu, qu'il ne se 
desempara de la ville d'Aix, oil il baetit un Palais, et 
un Monastere, en I'un desquels il parfit le reste de ses 
jours, et en I'autre voulut estre ensevely, ordonnant 
par son testament que tous les Empereurs de Rome 
eussent a se faire sacrer premierement en ce lieu. — 
Pasquieb. Recherches de la France. L. 6, C. 33. 
This very learned author has strangely mistaken Aix 
in Savoy, the real scene of the legend, for Aix-la- 
Chapelle. The ruins of a building said to have been 
Charlemain's palace are still to be seen on the Lake 
of Bourget. 



And teUing devoutly his beads, 
The good old Archbishop, when this was made 

known, 
Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone, 

And to look for the spell he proceeds. 



9. 
care, 



though with tremulous 



1, 
It was strange that he loved her, for youth was 
gone by, 
And the bloom of her beauty was fled : 
'Twas the glance of the harlot thst gleam'd in her 

eye, 
And all but the Monarch could plainly descry 
From whence came her white and her red. 

2. 
Yet he thought with Agatha none might.compare, 

And he gloried in wearing her chain ; 
The court was a desert if she were not there ; 
To him she alone among women seem'd fair, 

Such dotage possess' d Charleraain. 

3. 
The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid, 

Alike the proud leman detest ; 
And tlie good old Archbishop, who ceased to up- 
braid. 
Shook his gray head in sorrow, and silently pray'd 
That he soon might consign her to rest. 



A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all, 

For Agatha sickens and dies, 
And now they are ready with bier and with pall ; 
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall, 

And the strains of the requiem arise. 



But Charlemain sent them in anger away, 

For she should not be buried, he said ; 
And despite of all counsel, for many a day, 
Where array 'din her costly apparel she lay, 
The Monarch would sit by the dead. 

6. 
The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain, . 

And the army cry out for their lord ; 
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain, 
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain, 

And still he unsheaths not the sword. 



The soldiers they clamour, the Monks bend in 
prayer 
In the quiet retreats of the cell ; 



He searches with 
haste, 

For the spell that bewitches the king ; 
And under her tongue, for security placed, 
Its margin with mystical characters traced. 

At length he discovers a ring 

10. 
Rejoicing he seized it, and hasten'd away ; 

The Monarch re-enter'd the room ; 
The enchantment was ended, and, suddenly gay, 
He bade the attendants no longer delay. 

But bear her with speed to the tomb. 

11. 
Now merriment, joyance, and feasting again 

Enliven' d the palace of Aix ; 
And now by his heralds did King Charlemain 
Invite to his palace the courtier train 

To hold a high festival day. 

12. 
And anxiously now for the festival day 

The highly-born Maidens prepare; 
And now, all apparel' d in costly array. 
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix, 
Young and aged, the brave and the fair. 
13. 
Oh! happy the Damsel who, 'mid her compeers, 

For a moment engaged the King's eye ! 
Now glowing with hopes, and now fever'd with 

fears, 
Each maid or triumphant or jealous appears, 
As noticed by him, or pass'd by. 
14. 
And now, as the evening approach'd, to the ball 

In anxious suspense they advance. 
Hoping each on herself that the King's choice 

might fall, 
When, lo! to the utter confusion of all. 
He ask'd the Archbishop to dance. 

15. 
The damsels they laugh, and the barons they 
stare ; 
'Twas mirth and astonishment all ; 
And the Archbishop started, and mutter' d a 

prayer, 
And, wroth at receiving such mockery there, 
In haste he withdrew from the hall. 

16. 
The moon dimpled over the water with light 

As he wander' d along the lake side ; 
But the King had pursued, and, o'erjoyed at his 

sight, 
" Oh turn thee, Archbishop, my joy and delight, 
Oh turn thee, ray charmer," he cried. 



ST. ROMUALD, 



■49 



17. 
*' Oh come where the feast, and the dance, and 
the song, 
Invite thee to mirth and to love ; 
Or at this happy moment, away from the throng. 
To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along, — 
The moon never pierces that grove." 

18. 
As thus by new madness the King seem'd pos- 
sess'd, 
In new wonder the Archbishop heard ; 
Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly press' d 
The good old man's poor, wither' d hand to his 
breast. 
And kiss'd his long, gray, grizzle beard. 

19. 

*' Let us well, then, these fortunate moments em- 
ploy !" 
Cried the Monarch with passionate tone ; 
" Come away then, dear charmer, — my angel, — 

my joy,— 

Way, struggle not nov/, — 'tis in vain to be coy, — 
And remember that we are alone." 

20. 
■'Blessed Mary, protect me!" the Archbishop 
cried; 
' ' What madness has come to the King ! ' ' 
In vain to escape from the monarch he tried, 
When luckily he on his finger espied 
The ghtter of Agatha's ring. 

21. 
Overjoy' d, the good prelate remember'dthe spell. 

And far in the lake flung the ring ; 
The waters closed round it, and wondrous to tell, 
Released from the cursed enchantment of hell. 

His reason return'd to the King. 

22. 

But he built him a palace there close by the bay, 

And there did he love to remain ; 
And the traveller who will, may behold at this day 
A monument still in the ruins at Ai.\- 

Of the spell that possess'd Charlemain. 

Bath, 1797. 



ST. ROMUALD 



Les Catalans ayant appria que S, Roniuald vouloit 
ejuitter leurs pays, en furent tres-atlliges ; ils delibe- 
rerent sur les moyens de Ten empeclier, et le seul 
qu'Ds imaginerent comme le plus sAr, fut de le tuer, 
aiin de profiler du moins deses reliques ef. dcs gueri- 
so.ns et autres miracles qu'elles op^reroieiit apres sa 
mort. La devotion que les Catalans avoienl pour lui, 
r. > plut point du tout a S. Romuald ; il usa de strata- 
geme et leur echappa.— St. Foix, Essais Historiques 
sur Paris.— T. 5, p. 163. 

St.. Foix, who is often more amusing than trustworthy, 
hap fathered this story upon the Spaniards, though it 
belongs to his own countrymen, the circumstances 
having happened when Romuald was a monk of the 
Convent of St. Michael's, in Aquitane. It is thus 
related by Yepes : Bn esta ocasion sucedio una cosa 
bieu fixtraordinaria, porque los naturales de !a tierra 
7 



donde estava el monasterio de San Miguel, estima- 
van en tanto a San Romoaldo, que faltandoles la 
paciencia de que se quisies.?e yr, dieron en un terri- 
ble disparate, a quien llama muy bien San Pedro 
Damiano Irnpia Pietas, piedad cruel : porque querien- 
dose yr San Romoaldo, determinaron de matarle, 
para que ya que no le podian tener en su tierra vivo, 
alomenos gozassen de sus reliquias y cuerpo santo. 
Supo San Romoaldo la determinaeion bestial y in- 
discreta de aquella gente : y tonio una pntdente reso- 
lucion, porque imitando a David, que fingio que 
estava loco, por no caer en manos de sus enemigos, 
assi San Romoaldo se hizo raer la cabeca, y con al- 
gunos ademanes, y palabras mal coneertadas que 
dezia, le tuvieron por honibre que le avia faitado el 
juyzio, con que se asseguraron los naturales de la 
tierra que ya perpetuamente le tendrian en ella : y 
con semejante estratagema y tra^a tuvo lugar San 
Romoaldo de hurtarse, y a cencenos topados (conio 
dizen) huyr de aquella tierra, y llegar a Italia a la 
ciudad de Ravena. — Coronica Genera} de la Orden de 
San Benito.— T. 5, ff. 274. 

Villegas in his Fios Sanctorum, (February ~tli,) records 
some of St. Romuald's achievements against the 
Devil and his imps. He recorda also the other virtues 
of the Saint, as specified in the poem. They are 
more fully stated by Yepes. — Tenia tres cilicios. Ids 
quales mudava de treynta en treynta dias ; no los 
labava, sino ponialos al ayre, y ^ la agua que Uovia, 
con que se matavan algunas imnuindicias, que se 
criavan en ellos.— J^. 398. Quaiido alguna vez era 
tentado de la gula, y desseava comer de algun man- 
jar, tomovale en las manos, miravale, oliale, y des- 
pues que estava despierto el apetito, dezia, O gula, 
gula, quan dulce y suave te parece este niaiijar ! pero 
no te ha de entrer en provecho ! y entonces se morti- 
ficava, y le dexava, y le embiava entero, o al siUeri^o, 
o a los pobres. 

There is a free translation of this poem, by Bilderdrk, 
in the second volume of his Krehehons-en, p. !1.^. 



One day, it matters not to kiiow 

How many hundred years ago, 

A Frenchman stopp'd at an inn door ; 

The Landlord came to welcome him, and cha-t. 

Of this and that. 

For he had seen the Traveller there before. 

" Doth holy Romuald dwell 

Still in his cell?" 

The Traveller ask'd, "oris the old tnnn dead?'' 

" No ; he has left his loving flock, and we 

So great a Christian never more siiali see," 

Thfe Landlord answer'd, and he vshook his head, 

" Ah, sir, we knew his wortlj ! 

If ever there did live a Saint on earth ! — 

Why, Sir, he always used to vv-ear a shirt 

For thirty days, all seasons, day and night : 

Good man, he knew it was not right 

For Dust and Ashes to fall out viith Dirt ; 

And then he only hung it out in the rain^ 

And put it on again. 

" There has been perilous work 

With him and the Devil there in yonder cell ; 

For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. 

There they would sometimes fight 

All through a winter's night. 

From sunset until morn, 

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn ; 



50 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



The Devil spitting fire, with might and main, 

Enough to make St. Michael half afraid ; 

He splashing holy water till he made 

, His red hide hiss again. 

And the hot vapour fiU'd the smoking cell. 

This was so common that his face became 

All black and yellow with the brimstone flam.e, 

And then he smelt, — O Lord ! how he did smell ! 

" Then, Sir ! to see how he would mortify 

The flesh '. If any one had dainty fare. 

Good man, he would come there, 

And look at all the dehcate things, and cry 

' Belly, Belly, 

You would be gormandizing now, I know ; 

But it shall not be so ! — 

Home to your bread and water — home, I tell ye ! ' " 

"But," quoth the Traveller, " wherefore did he 

leave 

A flock that knew his saintly worth so well ?" 

" Why," said the Landlord, " Sir, it so befell 

He heard unluckily of our intent 

To do him a great honour ; and, you know, 

He was not covetous of fame below. 
And so by stealth one night away he went." 

"What might this honour be?" the Traveller 

cried. 

" Why, Sir," the host replied, 

"We thought perhaps that he might one day 

leave us ; 

And then should strangers have 

The good man's grave, 

A loss like that would naturally grieve us ; 

For he'll be made a Saint of, to be sure. 

Therefore we thought it prudent to secure 

His rehcs while we might ; 

And so we meant to strangle him one night." 

iVestbury, 1738. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK, 



The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning Bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The Sun in heaven was shining gay ; 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round. 

And there was jo'yance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, 
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess. 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row. 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. 

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound ; 

The bubbles rose and burst around ; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to ihe 

Rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away ; 
He scour'd the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 



An old writer mentions a curious tradition which may 
be v/orth quoting. " By east lh« Isle of May," says 
he, "twelve miles fioni all land In ihe German seas, 
lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dan- 
gerous for navigators, hecause it is overflowed everie 
tide. It is reported, in old times, upon the saide rods 
there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which 
rang continually, being moved by the sea, giving no- 
tice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke 
was put there and maintained by the Abbot of Aber- 
brothok, and being taken down by a sea pirate, a 
yeare thereafter he perished upon the same rocke, 
with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgement of 
God." — Stoddard's Remarks on Scotland. 



No Stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heave i received no motion; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock. 
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; 
So httle they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 



So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see ihe Sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day ; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? 
For methinks we should be near the shore." 
" Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shiveruig shock,— 
" Oh Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock !" 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
He curs' d himself in his despair ; 
The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 



51 



But, even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear — 
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 
Bristol, 1802. 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE, 



"I Know not whether it be worth the reporting, that 
there is in Cornwall, near the parish of St. Neots, a 
Well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of 
trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. 
Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that 
whether husband or wife come first to drink thereof, 
they get the mastery thereby." — Fuller, 
This passage in one of the folios of the worthy old 
Fuller, who, as he says, knew not whether it v/ere 
worth the reporting, suggested the following Ballad ; 
and the Ballad has produced so many imitations, that 
it may be prudent here thus to assert its originality, 
lest I should be accused hereafter of having commit-, 
ted the plagarism that has been practised upon it. 
"Next," says Carew, in his Survey of Cornwall, p. 
150, " I will relate you another of the Cornish natural 
wonders, viz. St Kayne's Well ; but lest you make 
a wonder first at the Saint, before you take notice of 
the Well, you must understand, that this was not 
Kayne the manqueller, but one of a gentler spirit and 
milder sex, to wit, a woman. He who caused the 
spring to be pictured, added this rhyme for an expo- 
sition : — 

'In name, in shape, in quality, 

This Well is very quaint; 
The name to lot of Kayne befell, 

No over-ho!y saint. 
The shape, four trees of divers kinde, 

Withy, Oak, Elm, and Ash, 
Make with their roots an arched roof, 
Whose floor this spring doth wash. 
The quality, that man or wife. 

Whose chance or choice attains 

First of this sacred stream to drink, 

Thereby the mastery gains.' " 

Carbw's Survey cf Cornwall., p. 120. 
Of St. Kcyne, whose death ie placed in the year 400, 
find whose festival used to be celebrated in Breck- 
nockshire, on October 8, there is a brief account in 
the English Martyrologe. Father Cresay, the Bene- 
dictine, gives her history more fully. "Illustrious," 
says he, ''she was for her birlh, being the tiaughter 
of Braganus, prince of that province in Wales, v/hich, 
from him, was afterwards called Brecknockshire; 
but more illustrious for her zeal to preserve her chas- 
tity, for which reason she was called Sr. the British 
language Keynevayro, that is, Keyna the Virgin." 
2. This Prince Braganus,orBrachanus, the father of St. 
Keyna, is* said to have had twelve sons and twelve 
daughters by his lady, called Marcalla, daughter of 
Theodoric son of Tethphalt, Prince of Garthniatrin, 
the same region called afterward Brecknock. Their 
first born son was St. Canoe : and their eldest daugh- 
ter was Gladus, who was mother of Cadocus by St. 
Gunley, a holy king of the southern Britons. The 
second daughter was Melaria,the mother of the holy 
Archbishop St. David. Thus writes Capgrave, 
neither doth he mention any other of their children 
besides St. Keyna. 
8. But in Giraldus Cambrensisf another daughter is 
commemorated, called St. Almedha. And David 
Powel t makes mention of a fifth named Tydvael, 



* Antiquit. GlasloD. | Girald. Cambr. I. i. < 

% D. PovTcl ia Anaotat, ad Girald. 



who was the wife of Congen the son of Cadel, Prince 
of Powisland ; and mother of Brochmael, surnamed 
Scithroc, who slew Ethelfred King of the North- 
umhers. 

;. Concerning the Iloly Virgin St. Keyna, we find this 
narration in the author of her life, extant in Cap- 
grave : * " She was of royal blood, being daughter 
of Braganus, Prince of Brecknockshire. When she 
came to ripe years many noble persons sought her in 
marriage; but she utterly refused that state, having 
consecrated her virginity to our Lord by a perpetual 
vow. For which cause she was afterward by the 
Britons called Keyn-wiri, that is, Keyna the Virgin." 

. At length she determined to forsake her country and 
find out some desart place, where she might attend 
to contemplation. Therefore, directing her journey 
beyond Severn, and there meeting with certain 
woody places, she made her request to the prince of 
that country that she might be permitted to serve God 
in that solitude. His answer was, that he was very 
%villing to grant her request, but that that place did 
so swarm with serpents that neither men nor beasts 
could inhabit it. But she constantly replied, that her 
firm trust was in the name and assistance of Al- 
mighty God, to drive all that poisonous brood out of 
that region. 

. Hereupon the place was granted to the Holy Virgin; 
who presently prostratin.g herself in fervent prayer 
to God, obtained of him to change all the serpents 
and vipers there into stones. And to this day the 
stones in that region do resemble the v/indings of 
serpents through all the fields and villages, as if they 
had been framed so by the hand of (he engraver. 

. Our learned Camden, in his diligent search after an- 
tiquities, seems to have visited this country, being a 
part of Somersetshire, though he is willing to dispa- 
rage the miracle. His words are, "On the western 
bank of Avon is seen the town of Cainsham. Some 
are of opinion that it was named so from Keyna, a 
most holy British Virgin, who, according to the cre- 
dulous persuasion of former ages, is believed to have 
turned serpents into stones ; because such like mira- 
cles of sporting nature are there sometimes found 
in the quarries. I myself saw a stone brought from 
thence representing a serpent rolled up into a spire ; 
the head of it stuck nut in the outward surface, and 
the end of the tail terminated in the centre." 

. But let us prosecute the life of this holy Virgin. 
Many years being spent by her in this solitary place, 
and the fame of her sanctity every where divulged, 
and many oratories built by her, her nephew St. 
Cadoc pi^rforming a pilgrimage to the Mount of St. 
Michael, met there with his blessed aunt, St. Keyna, 
at whose sight he Vi'as replenished with preat joy. 
And being desirous to bring her back to her own 
country, the inhabitants of that region v/ould not 
permit him. But afterward, by the admonition of an 
angel, the holy Maid returned to the place of her na- 
tivity, where, on the top of a hillock seated at the 
foot of a high iiiouniain, she made a little habitation 
for herself; and by her prayers to God obtained a 
spring there to flow out of the earth, which, by the ' 
merits of the Holy Virgin, afforded health to divers 
infirmities. 

. But when the time of her consummation approached, 
one night she, by the revelation of the Holy Ghost, 
saw in a vision, as it were, a fiery pillar, the base 
whereof was fixed on her bed ; now her bed was the 
pavement strewed over with a few branches of trees. 
And in this vision two angels appeared to her; one 
of which appro ching respectfully to her, seemed to 
take off the sackcloth with which she was covered, 
and instead thereof to put on her a smock of fine 
linen, and over that a tunic of purple, and last of alt' 
a mantle all woven with gold. Which having done, 
he thus said to her, "Prepare yourself to come witk 



* Capsrav. id S. Keym. 



52 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



us, that we may lead you into your heavenly Father's 
kingdom." Hereupon she wept with excess of joy, 
and endeavouring to follow the angels she awaked, 
and found her body inflamed with a fever, so that she 
perceived her end was near. 

10. Therefore, sending for her nephew Cadocus, she 
said to him, "This is the place above all others be- 
loved by me ; here my memory shall be perpetuated. 
This place I will often visit in spirit if it may be per- 
mitted me. And I am assured it shall be permitted 
me, because our Lord has granted me this place as a 
certain inheritance. The time will come when this 
place shall be inhabited by a sinful people, which 
notvvithkanding I will violently root out of this seat. 
My tomb shall be a long while unknown, till the 
coming of other people, whom, by my prayers, I shall 
bring hither ; them will I protect and defend ; and in 
this place shall the name of our Lord be blessed for 
ever." 

11. After this, her soul being ready to depart out of her 
body, she saw standing before her a troop of hea- 
venly angels, ready, joyfully, to receive her soul, and 
to transport it without any fear or danger from her 
spiritual enemies. Which, having told to those who 
stood by, her blessed soul was freed from the prison 
of her body, on the eighth day before the Ides of Oc- 
tober. In her dissolution, her face smiled, and was 
all of a rosy colour ; and so sweet a fragrancy pro- 
ceeded from her sacred virgin body, that those who 
were present thought themselves in the joy of Para- 
dise. St. Cadocus buried her in her own oratory, 
where for many years she had led a most holy, mor- 
tified life, very acceptable to God. — Church History of 
Brittany, Book X., C/t. 14. 

Such is the history of St. Keyne, as related by F. Se- 
renus Cressy, permissu superiorum, et approbatione 
Doctorum. There was evidently a scheme of setting 
up a shrine connected with the legend. In one part 
it was Avell conceived, for the Cornu Ammonis is 
no where so frequently found as near Keynsham; 
fine specimens are to be seen over the doors of many 
houses there, and I have often observed fragments 
among the stones which were broken up to mend the 
road. The Welsh seem nearly to have forgotten this 
saint. Mr. Owen, in his Cambrian Biography, enu- 
merates two daughters of Brychan, Ceindrech, and 
Ceinwen, both ranked among saints, and the latter 
having two churches dedicated to her in Mona. One 
of these is probably St. Keyne. 



A Well there is in the west country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a wife in the west country 
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 
And behind doth an ash-tree grow, 

And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he : 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow -tree. 

There came a man from the house hard by, 

At the Well to fill his pail ; 
On the Well-side he rested it, 

And he bade the Stranger hail. 



" Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he; 

" For an if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 

That ever thou didst in thy hfe. 

" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an if she have, I'll venture my life, 

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 

" I have left a good woman who never was here,* 

The Stranger he made reply ; 
"But that my draught should be the better for that 

I pray you answer me why." 



■ many 



"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, 
a time 

Drank of this crystal Well ; 
And before the Angel summon' d her, 

She laid on the water a spell. 

" If the Husband of this gifted Well 
Shall drink before his Wife, 

A happy man henceforth is he, 
For he shall be Master for life. 



" But if the Wife should drink of it first, — 

God help the Husband then !" 
The Stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ?" 

He to the Cornish-man said ; 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger 
spake. 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten' d as soon as the wedding was done, 

And left my Wife in the porch ; 
But i' faith she had been wiser than me, 

For she took a bottle to church." 

Westhury, 1798. 



BISHOP BRUNO. 



"Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the 
river of Danubius, with Henry the Third, then Em- 
peror, being not far from a place which the Germanes 
call Ben Strudel, or the devouring gulfe, which is 
neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a gpirit was 
heard clamoring aloud, 'Ho, ho, Bisliop Bruno, 
whither art thou travelling? but dispose of thyselfe 
how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoil.' 
At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, 
and the Bishop with the rest crossed and blessed 
themselves. The issue was, that within a short time 
after, the Bishop, feasting with the Emperor in a cas- 
tle belonging to the Countesse of Esburcli, a rafter 
fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, 
and strooke him dead at the table."— Hey wood's 
Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels. 



Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight. 
And be heard his heart beat loud with affright : 
He dreamt he had rung the palace bell, 
And the sound it gave was his passing knell. 



THE BATTLE OF B L E N H E I Iv 



53 



Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain ; 

He turned to sleep, and he dreamt again ; 

He rang at the palace gate once more, 

And Death was the Porter that open'd the door. 

He started up at the fearful dream, 

And he heard at his window the screech-owl 

scream ; 
Bishop Bruno slept no more that night, — 
Oh I glad was he when he saw the day-light ! 

Now he goes forth in proud array, 
For he with the Emperor dines to-day ; 
There was not a Baron in Germany 
That went with a nobler train than he. 

Before and behind his soldiers ride ; 
The people throng' d to see their pride ; 
They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent, 
But nobody bless' d him as he went. 

So he went on stately and proud, 

When he heard a voice that cried alond, 

' ' Ho ! ho ! Bishop Bruno ! you travel with glee ; 

But I would have you know, you travel to me !" 

Behind, and before, and on either side, 
He look'd. but nobody he espied ; 
And the Bishop at that grew cold with fear, 
For he heard the words distinct and clear. 

And when he rang at the palace bell, 
He almost expected to hear his knell ; 
And when the Porter turn'd the key, 
He almost expected Death to see. 

But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, 
For the Emperor welcomed him royally ; 
And now the tables were spread, and there 
Were choicest wines and dainty fare. 

And now the Bishop had bless' d the meat, 
When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat, — 
' ' With the Emperor now you are dining with glee, 
But know, Bishop Bruno, you sup with me !" 

The Bishop then grew pale with affright, 
And suddenly lost his appetite ; 
All the wine and dainty cheer 
Could not comfort his heart, that was sick with 
fear. 

But by little and little recovered he. 
For the wine went flowing merrily, 
Till at length he forgot his former dread, 
And his cheeks again grew rosy red. 

When he sat down to the royal fare, 
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there ; 
But when the masquers enter'd the hall, 
He was the merriest man of all. 

Then from amid the masquers' crowd 

There went a voice hollow and loud, — 

" You have past the day, Bishop Bruno, in glee; 

But you must pass the night \vith me !" 

His cheek grows pale, and his eyeballs glare. 
And stiff round his tonsure bristled his hair ; 



With that there came one from the masqii.ers' 

band. 
And took the Bishop by the hand. 

The bony hand suspended his breath. 
His marrow grew cold at the touch of Death ; 
On saints in vain he attempted to call; 
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall. 
Westbury. 1798. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



1. 
It was a summer evening ; 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His httle grandchild Wilhelmine. 

2. 
She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found ; 
He came to ask what he had found, 
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

3. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

4. 
'• I find them in the garden, 

For there's many here about ; 
And often, when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out ; 
For many thousand men," said he, 
" Were slain in that great victory." 

5. 
" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 

6. 
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, 

" Who put the French to rout ; 
But what they fought each other for, 

I could not well make out ; 
But every body said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory. 



" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



54 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide, 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things hke that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

9. 
" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

10. 
" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

11. 
" And every body praised the Duke, 

Who this great fight did wdn." 
" But what good came of it at last?" 

Quoth httle Peterkin. 
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY; 

A BALLAD, 

SHOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOU- 
BLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. 



A.. D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier qusdara malefica, 
in villa quae Berkeleia dicitur degens, gulie amatrij: 
ac petiilantice, flagiliis moduin usque in senium at 
auguriis non ponens, usque ad mortem impudica per- 
mansit. Hsec die quadam cuin sederet ad prandium, 
cornicula quam pro delitiis pascebat, nescio quid 
garrire caspit ; quo audito, mulieris cultellus de marni 
excidit, simul et facies pallescere cjepit, et emisso 
rugitu, hodie, inquit, accipiam grande incommodum, 
hodieque ad sulcum ultinium meum pervenit aia- 
trum. auo dicto, nuncius doloris intravlt; muliere 
vero percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi 
fliii tui obitum et totius familiie ejus ex subita ruina 
interitum. Hoc quoque dolore mulier permota, lecto 
protinus decubuit graviter innrmata; sentiensque 
morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos quos habuit 
superstites, monaclium videlicet et monacham, per 
epistolam invitavit ; advenientes autem voce singul- 
tiente alloquitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, meo misera- 
bili fato dsemoniacis semper artibus inservivi; ego 
omnium vitiorum sentina, ego illecebrarum omnium 
fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi inter hajc mala spes 
vestrffi religionis, quce meam solidaret animam de- 
speratum: vos expectabam propugnatores contra 
dsemones, tutores contra sosvissimos hostes. Nunc 
igitur quoniam ad finem vitje perveni, rogo vos per 
materna ubera, ut mea tentatis alleviara tormenta. 
Insuite me defunctam in corio cervino, ac deinde in 
sarcophago lapideo supponite, operculumque ferro et 
plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus ca- 



thensis ferreis et fortissimis circiindantee, clericoe 
quinquaginta psalmorum cantores, et tot per tres dies 
presbyteros missarum cclebratores applicate, qui fe- 
roces lenigent adversariorum incursus. Ita si tribus 
noctibus secura jaciieto, quarta die me infodite hunio: 

Factumque est ut praeceperat illis. Scd, proh dolor! 
nil preces, nil lacrymie, nil demum valuere cathense. 
Prirais enim duabus noctibus, cum chori psallentium 
corpori assistebant, advenientes Dtemones ostium 
ecclesiaj confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, extre- 
masque cathenas negotio levi dirumpunt ; media 
autem quaj fortior erat, illibata mauebat. Tertia. 
autem nocte, circa gallicinium, strepitu hostium ad- 
ventantium, omne rnonasterium visum est a funda- 
raento moveri. Unus ergo doemonum, et vultu cceteris 
terribilior et statura eminentior, januaa Ecclesiae 
impotu violento concussas in fragnienta dejecit. Di- 
vexerunt clerici cum laicis, metu steterunt omnium 
capilli, et psalmorum concenlus defecit. Daemon ergo 
gestu ut videbatur arroganti ad sepulchrum acce- 
dens, et nomen mulieris modicum ingeminans, sur- 
gere imperavit. Qua respondeiite, quod nequiret 
pro vinculis, jam ma!o tuo, inquit, solveris ; ct proti- 
nus cathenam qure cfeterorum, ferociuin diumonum 
deluserat,velutstuppeum vinculum nimpebat. Oper- 
culum etiam sepulthri pede depellens, mulierein 
palam omnibus ab ecclesia. extraxit, ubi prre foribus 
niger equus superbe hinniens videbatur, uncis ferreia 
et clavis undique confixus, super quern misera mulier 
projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audieban- 
tur taraen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horri- 
biles, auxilium postulantes. 

Ista itaque quBs retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur 
beati Gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in 
ecclesia sepultum, a diemonibus foras ejectum. Et 
apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortitu- 
dinis, qui Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hiapaniam 
redire compulit, exactis vitss suae diebus, in Ecclesial 
beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia pa- 
trimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum 
Gallis, pro stipendio commilitonuni suorum mutila- 
verat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de sepulchre 
corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nus- 
quam comparuit. — Matthew of Westminstek. 

This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the 
Nuremberg Chronicle. But William of Malmesbury 
seems to have been the original authority, and he had 
the story from an eye-vifitness. " When I shall have 
related it," he says, " the credit of the narrative wilt 
not be shaken, though the minds ofthe hearers should 
be incredulous, for I have heard it from a man of suck 
character who loould swear he had seen it, that I should 
blush to disbelieve."—SAa)-;7e's William OF Malmes- 
bury, p. 264. 



The Raven croak' d as she sat at her meal, 
And the Old Woman knew what he said, 

And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, 
And sicken'd, and went to her bed. 

" Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with 
speed," 

The Old Woman of Berkeley said; 
" The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun, 

Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead." 

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 

Their way to Berkeley went ; 
And they have brought, with pious thought, 

The holy sacrament. 

The Old Woman shriek' das they enter'dherdoor; 

And she cried with a voice of despair, 
" Now take away the sacrament, 

For its presence I cannot bear !" 



THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY. 



55 



Her lip it trembled with agony ; 

The sweat ran down her brow ; 
" I have tortures in store for evermore, 

But spare me, inj' children, now!" 

Away they sent the sacrament ; 

The fit it left her weak ; 
She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes, 

And faintly struggled to speak. 

" All kind of sin I have rioted in, 

And the judgment now must be ; 
But I secured my children's souls ; 

Oh ! pray, my children, for me ! 

" I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat ; 

The fiends have been my slaves ; 
From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath ; 
And, breaking by charms the sleep of death, • 

I have call'd the dead from their graves. 

" And the Devil will fetch me now in fire, 

My witchcrafts to atone ; 
And I, who have troubled the dead man's grave, 

Shall never have rest in my own. 

" Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet. 

My children, I beg of you; 
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud, 

And sprinkle my coffin too. 

" And let me be chain'd in my coflan of stone. 

And fasten it strong, I implore. 
With iron bars, and with three chains 

Chain it to the church floor. 

" And bless the chains, and sprinkle them; 

And let fifty Priests stand round. 
Who night and day the mass may say 

Where I lie on the ground. 

" And see that fifty Choristers 

Beside the bier attend me, 
And day and night, by the tapers' light. 

With holy hymns defend me. 

" Let the church bells all, both great and small, 

Be toll'd by night and day, 
To drive from thence the fiends who come 

To bear my body away. 

" And ever have the church-door barr'd 

After the even-song ; 
And I beseech you, children dear, 

Let the bars and bolts be strong. 

" And let this be three days and nights, 

My wretched corpse to save ; 
Till tlie fourth morning keep me safe, 

And then I may rest in my grave." 

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down. 

And her eyes grew deadly dim ; 
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death 

Did loosen every limb. 

They bless' d the old woman's winding sheet 

With rites and prayers due ; 
With holv water they sprinkled her shroud. 

And tney sprinkled her coffin too. 



And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone, 

And with iron barr'd it down, 
And in the church with three strong chains 

They chain'd it to the ground. 

And they bless'd the chains, and sprinkled them ; 

And fifty Priests stood round. 
By night and day the mass to say 

Where she lay on the ground. 

And fifty sacred Choristers 

Beside the bier attend her, 
Who day and night, by the tapers' light, 

Should with holy hymns defend her. 

To see the Priests and Choristers 

It was a goodly sight. 
Each holding, as it were a staff, 

A taper burning bright. 

And the church bells all, both great and small, 

Did toll so loud and long : 
And they have barr'd the church door hard, 

After the even-song. 

And the first night the tapers' light 

Burnt steadily and clear ; 
But they without a hideous rout 

Of angry fiends couM hear ; — 

A hideous roar at the church door, 

Like a long thunder peal ; 
And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers 
sung 

Louder, in fearful zeal. 

Loud toll'd the bell ; the priests pray'd well; 

The tapers they burnt bright ; 
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 

They told their beads all night. 

The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away ; 

Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, 
And the fifty Priests they pray ; 

As they had sung and pray'd all night. 
They pray'd and sung all day. 

The second night the tapers' light 

Burnt dismally and blue, 
And every one saw his neighbour's face 

Like a dead man's face to view. 

And yells and cries without arise. 
That the stoutest heart might shock, 

And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring 
Over a mountain rock. 

The Monk and Nun they told their beads 

As fast as they could tell, 
And aye as louder grew the noise, 

The faster went the bell. 

Louder and louder the Choristers sung. 
As they trembled more and more ; 

And the Priests as they pray'd to Heaven for aid, 
They smote their breasts full sore. 

The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away ; 



56 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, 

And the fifty Priests they pray ; 
A.S they had sung and pray'd all night, 

They pray'd and sung all day. 

The third night came, and the tapers' flame 

A frightful stench did make ; 
And they burnt as though they had been dipp'd 

In the burning brimstone lake. 

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of 
ocean, 

Grew momently more and more ; 
And strokes as of a battering ram, 

Did shake the strong church door. 

The bellmen they for very fear 

Could toll the bell no longer ; 
And still as louder grew the strokes, 

Their fear it grew the stronger. 

The Monk and Nun forgot their beads ; 

They fell on the ground in dismay ; 
There was not a single Saint in heaven 

To whom they did not pray. 

And the Choristers' song, which late was so 
strong. 

Falter' d with consternation ; 
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock 

Uplifted its foundation. 

And a sound was heard hke the trumpet's blast 
That shall one day wake the dead ; 

The strong church door could bear no more, 
And the bolts and the bars they fled ; — 

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite ; 

And the Choristers faintly sung ; 
And the Priests, dismay'd, panted and pray'd, 
And on all Saints in heaven for aid 

They call'd with trembhng tongue. 

And in He came with eyes of flame, 

The Devil,' to fetch the dead ; 
And all the church with his presence glow'd 

Like a fiery furnace red. 

He laid his hand on the iron chains, 
And like flax they moulder'd asunder, 

And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm. 
He burst with his voice of thunder. 

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise, 

And come with her master away ; 
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse, 

At the voice she was forced to obey. 

She rose on her feet in her winding-sheet ; 

Her dead flesh quiver' d with fear ; 
And a groan hke that which the Old Woman gave 

Never did mortal hear. 

She follow'd her master to the church door ; 

There stood a black horse there ; 
Ktls breath was red like furnace smoke, 

His eyes like a meteor's glare. 

The Devil he flung her on the horse. 
And he leap'd up before, 



And away like the lightning's speed they went. 
And she was seen no more. 

They saw her no more ; but her cries 
For four miles round they could hear ; 

And children at rest at their mothers' breaat 
Started, and scream'd with fear. 
Hereford, 1798. 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW, 



1. 

The Emperor Nap he would set off 

On a summer excursion to Moscow ; 

The fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 

2. 

Four hundred thousand men and more 

Must go with him to Moscow : 

There were Marshals by the dozen, 

And Dukes by the score ; 

Princes a few, and Kings one or two ; 

While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow * 

3. 
There was Junot and Augereau, 

Heigh-ho for Moscow ! 

Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, 

Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! 

General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap; 

Nothing would do. 

While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

Nothing would do 

For the whole of this crew. 

But they must be marching to Moscow. 

4. 

The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big 

That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe. 

John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise, 

Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please 

To grant you peace, upon your knees, 

Because he is going to Moscow ! 

He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes, 

And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians; 

For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

And he'll certainly march to Moscow! 

5. 

And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume 

At the thought of the march to Moscow : 

The Russians, he said, they were undone, 

And the great Fee-Faw-Fum 

Would presently come. 

With a hop, step, and jump, unto London. 

For, as for his conquering Russia, 

However some persons might scoff it, 

Do it he could, and do it he would. 

And from doing it nothing would come but good, 

And nothing could call him off if. 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 



57 



Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know, 

For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. 

They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, 

Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd: 

It was, through thick and thin, to its party true ; 

Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 
It served them for Law and for Gospel too. 

6. 
But the Russians stoutly they turned to 

Upon the road to Moscow. 

Nap had to fight his way all through ; 

They could fight, though they could not parlez- 

vous; 

But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

And so he got to Moscow. 

7. 
He found the place too warm for him, 

For they set fire to Moscow. 

To get there had cost him much ado, 

And then no better course he knew, 

While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

But to March back again from Moscow. 

8. 
The Russians they stuck close to him 

All on the road from Moscow. 

There was Tormazow and Jemalow, 

And all the others that end in ow ; 

Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, 

And Karatschkowitch, 

And all the others that end in itch ; 

Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, 

And Schepaleff, 

And all the others that end in eff; 

Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff, 

And Tchoglokoff, 

And all the others that end in off; 

Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, 

And Rieffsky, 

And all the others that end in effsky ; 

Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, 
And all the others that end in offsky ; 

And Platoff he play'd them off, 

And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, 

And Markoff he mark'd them off. 

And Krosnoff he cross'd them off. 

And Tuchkoff he touch'd them off, 

And Boroskoffhe bored them off, 

And Kutousoff he cut them off, 

And Parenzoff he pared them off. 

And Worronzoff he worried them off, 

And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off, 

And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off. 

And, last of all, an Admiral came, 

A terrible man with a terrible name, 



A name which you all know by sight very well, 

But which no one can speak, and no one can 

spell. 

They stuck close to Nap with all their might; 

They were on the left and on the right, 

Behind and before, and by day and night ; 

He would rather parlez-vous than fight ; 

But he look'd white, and he look'd blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 

When parlez-vous no more would do, 

For they remember'd Moscow. 

9. 

And then came on the frost and snow. 

All on the road from Moscow. 

The wind and the weather he found in that houT, 

Cared nothing for him nor for all his power; 

For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his 

rod, 

Put his trust in his fortune, and not in his God, 

Worse and worse every day the elements grew, 

The fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 

Sacrebleu ! Venirebleu ! 

What a horrible journey from Moscow ! 

10. 

What then thought the Emperor Nap 

Upon the road from Moscow ? 

Why, I ween he thought it small delight 

To fight all day, and to freeze all night ; 

And he was besides in a very great fright. 

For a whole .skin he hked to be in ; 

And so, not knowing what else to do, 

When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

He stole away, — I tell you true, — 

Upon the road from Moscow. 

'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most; 

So the Devil may take the hindmost. 

11. 

Too cold upon the road was he ; 

Too hot had he been at Moscow ; 

But colder and hotter he may be, 

For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; 

And a place there is to be kept in view, 

Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

Which he must go to, 

If the Pope say true, 

If he does not in lime look about him ; 

Where his namesake almost 

He may have for his Host ; 

He has reckon'd too long without him ; 

If that Host get him in Purgatory, 

He won't leave him there alone with his glory, 

But there he must stay for a very long day, 

For from thence there is no stealing away, 

As there was on the road from Moscow. 

Keswick, 1813. 



CHARLES LAMB. 



Chakles Lamb was born in the Temple, Lon- 
don, on the 10th of February, 1775. He received 
his education at Christ's Hospital, and was, for 
the greater portion of his life, a clerk in the office 
of the Accountant-General at the India House. 
His earhest and his latest associate was his school- 
mate, Coleridge : — the last, or nearly the last, 
lines he ever penned contained a brief but deeply 
earnest and pathetic tribute to the memory of his 
"fifty years old friend without a dissension;" 
and the grass had not time to grow over the grave 
of the one before it was opened to receive all that 
was mortal of the other. The life of Charles 
Lamb contains no startling incident; — it was 
calm, comparatively untroubled, even and unob- 
trusive; a story is told, indeed, of some mystery 
which hung as a dark cloud over his merry heart, 
bringing and keeping care and despondency under 
his roof — ^but it is one with which the world had 
no concern ; his pecuniary circumptances were 
easy ; and literature was to him the staff but not 
the crutch. To the fact that he was never com- 
pelled to write, we are indebted for the high de- 
gree of finish which distinguishes all he produced: 
but to this cause also must be attributed that he 
wrote so little. Partly from choice, and partly 
from the necessity of attending daily to his official 
duties, he was a constant resident in London; 
and, consequently, neither in his poetry nor in his 
prose do we find many proofs of that inspiration, 
which is drawn from faraihar intercourse with 
Nature. He loved the country far less than he 
loved the town ; and found in the streets and 
alleys of the metropolis themes as fertile as some 
of his contemporaries had sought and obtained 
among the hills and valleys of Westmoreland. 
He knew every spot the great men of former 
days had made "hallowed ground." Many a 
dingy building of brick was to hira more sacred 
than "the temple not made with hands," as being 
the birth-place or intellectual laboratory of some 
mighty master of the past. His delicious "Es- 
says," therefore, open to us sources of peculiar 
delight, and show that as much exquisite enjoy- 
ment rnay be derived from a contemplative stroll 
down Fleet street, as from a pensive ramble 
" mid flower-enamelled lands and blooming thick- 
ets." They are full of wisdom, pregnant with 
genuine wit, abound in true pathos, and have a 
rich vein of humour running through them all. 
The kindliness of his heart, and the playfulness 
of his fancy are spread over every page. As a 



critic, he was sound yet gentle. If his maturer 

taste and extensive reading compelled him to try 
all modern writers by a standard terribly severe, 
he reproved with a mild persuasive bearing : 

" Of right and wrong he taught 
Truths as refined as ever Athens heard." 

If his style reminds us forcibly of the "old in- 
ventive Poets," he never strikes us as an imitator 
of them. His mind was akin to theirs ; and he 
lived his days and nights in their company ; na- 
turally and unconsciously, therefore, he thought 
as they thought, and adopted their manner. His 
"Tragedy," as he calls it, "John Woodvil," 
will almost bear comparison with the happiest 
efforts of the British dramatists in the high and 
palmy days of the drama. Few of them have 
done more within the same space, or produced 
finer effects by simple touches. 

The personal character of Lamb must have 
been amiable to a degree ; — the evidence of his 
writings, and the testimony of many friends, prove 
it to have been so. He died at his residence in 
Islington, on the 27th of December, 1834. His 
personal appearance was remarkable ; his figure 
was diminutive and ungraceful ; but his head was 
of the finest and most intellectual cast; "his 
face," writes one of his most esteemed friends, 
"was deeply marked and full of noble lines, — 
traces of sensibility, imagination, suffering, and 
much thought. His wit was in his eye, luminous, 
quick, and restless. The smile that played about 
his mouth was ever cordial and good-himioured." 
Leigh Hunt has happily characterized both his 
person and his mind: — "as his frame so is his 
genius. It is as fit for thought as can be, and 
equally as unfit for action." 

The poetical productions of Charles Lamb are 
very limited; but they are sufficient both in 
quantity and quahty to sectxre for him a promi- 
nent station among the Poets of Great Britain. 
He did not consider it beneath him to scribble 
" Album verses;" but his judgment in publish- 
ing them has been arraigned. If among them we 
find a few puerilities, and numerous affectatiora, 
it will not require a very close search to perceive 
many graceful and beaiuiful flowers lurking under 
leaves which are certainly uninviting. He loved 
to trifle, both in verse and prose ; yet his trifling 
was that of a philosopher, — desiring to unbend, 
but retaining a consciousnes.> of power. 



(58) 



POEMS. 



59 



POEMS 



HESTER. 

Whjen maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more has she been dead 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed, 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
Tliat flush' d her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
Which doth the human feehng cool. 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
Natiire had blest her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore. 
Shall we not meet, a"s heretofore. 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet fore-warning ? 



TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD 
WAS DROWNED. 

Smilius river, smiling river. 
On thy bosom sun-beams play ; 

Though they're fleeting, and retreating, 
Thou hast more deceit than they. 

In thy channel, in thy channel, 

Choak'd with ooze and grav'lljr stones. 

Deep immersed, and unhearsed. 

Lies young Edward's corse : his bones 

Ever whitening, ever whitening. 
As thy waves against them dash ; 

What thy torrent, in the current, 
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. 

As if senseless, as if senseless 
Things had feehng in this case ; 

What so blindly, and unkindly, 
Itdestroy'd, it now does grace 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see hw— 
All, all are gone, the old famiUar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-Uke I paced round the haunts of my child- 
hood, 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou, more than a brother, 
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling t 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have 

left me. 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 



QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM, 

Oti a bank with roses shaded, 
Whose sweet scent the violets aided, 
Violets whose breath alone 
Yields but feeble smell or none, 
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on 
When his eyes Olympus closed on,) 
While o'er head six slaves did hold 
Canopy of cloth o' gold, 
And two more did music keep. 
Which might Juno lull to sleep, 
Oriana vvlio was queen 
To the mighiy Tamerlane, 
That was lord of all the land 
Between Thrace and Samarchand, 
While the noon-lide fervor beam'd. 
Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd. 

Thus far, in magnific strain, 
A young poet sooth' d his vein, 
But he had nor prose nor numbers 
To express a princess' slumbers. — 
Youthful Richard had strange fancies, 
Was deep versed in old romances. 
And could talk whole hours upon 
The great Cham and Presier John,- 
Tell the field in which the Sophi 
From the Tartar won a trophy — 
What he read with such delight of. 
Thought he could as eas'ly write of- 
But his over-young invention 
Kept not pace with brave intention. 
Twenty suns did rise and set, 
And he could no further get ; 



60 



CHARLES LAMB. 



But, unable to proceed, 

Made a virtue out of need, 

And, his labours, wiselier deem'd of, 

Did omit what the queen dream! d of. 



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO, 

May the Babylonish curse 

Straight confound my stammering verse, 

If I can a passage see 

In this word-perplexity, 

Or a fit expression find, 

Or a language to my mind, 

(Still the phrase is wide or scant) 

To take leave of thee, great plant ! 

Or in any terms relate 

Half my love, or half my hate : 

For I hate, yet love, thee so, 

That, whichever thing I shew, 

The plain truth will seem to be 

A constrain' d hyperbole, 

And the passion to proceed 

More from a mistress than a weed. 

Sooty retainer to the vine, 
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon 
Thy begrimed complexion, 
And, for thy pernicious sake, 
More and greater oaths to break 
Than reclaimed lovers take 
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay 
Much too in the female way. 
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath 
Faster than kisses or than death. 

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, 
That our worst foes cannot find us, 
And ill fortune, that would thwart us, 
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 
While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam. 
Does like a smoking Etna seem, 
And all about us does express 
(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
A Sicilian fruitfulness. 

Thou through such a mist dost shew us, 
That our best fiiends do not know us. 
And, for those allowed features. 
Due to reasonable creatures, 
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, 
Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; 
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion. 

Bacchus we know, and we allow 
His tipsy rites. But what art thou, 
That but by reflex canst shew 
What his deity can do, 
As the false Egyptian spell 
Aped the true Hebrew miracle 1 
Some few vapours thou may'st raise, 
The weak brain may serve to amaze, 
But to the reins and nobler heart 
Canst nor life nor heat impart. 



Brother of Bacchus, later born, 
The old world was sure forlorn. 
Wanting thee, that aidestmore 
The god's victories than before 
All his panthers, and the brawls 
Of his piping Bacchanals. 
These, as stale, we disallow. 
Or judge of thee meant : only thou 
His true Indian conquest art ; 
And, for ivy round his dart, 
The reformed god now weaves 
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 

Scent to match thy rich perfume 
Chemic art did ne'er presume 
Through her quaint alembic strain, 
None so sov' reign to the brain. 
Nature, that did in thee excel, 
Fram'd again no second smell. 
Roses, violets, but toys 
For the smaller sort of boys. 
Or for greener damsels meant ; 
Thou art the only manly scent. 

Stinking' St of the stinking kind. 
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
Africa, that brags her foyson. 
Breeds no such prodigious poison, 
Henbane, nightshade, both together, 
Hemlock, aconite 

Nay, rather. 
Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 
'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee ; 
None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; 
Irony all, and feign'd abuse. 
Such as perplext lovers use, 
At a need, when, in despair 
To paint forth their fairest fair, 
Or in part but to express 
That exceeding comeliness 
Which their fancies doth so strike. 
They borrow language of dislike; 
And, instead of Dearest Miss, 
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 
And those forms of old admiring, 
Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
Basihsk, and all that's evil. 
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, 
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; 
Friendly Trait' ress, loving Foe, — 
Not that she is truely so, 
But no other way they know 
A contentment to express, 
Borders so upon excess, 
That they do not rightly wot 
Whether it be pain or not. 

Or, as men, constrain'd to part 
With what's nearest to their heart, 
While their sorrow's at the height, 
Lose discrimination quite, 
And their hasty wrath let fall, 
To appease their frantic gall. 
On the darling thing whatever, 
Whence they feel it death to sever, 



POEMS 



61 



Though it h&, as they, perforce, 
Guiltless of the sad divorce, 



For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. 
For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
Would do any thing but die, 
And but seek to extend my days 
Long enough to sing thy praise. 
But, as she, who once hath been 
A king's consort, is a queen 
Ever after, nor will bate 
Any tittle of her state, , 

Though a widow, or divorced, 
So I, from thy converse forced, 
The old name and style retain, 
A right Katherine of Spain ; 
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
Where, though I, by sour physician, 
Am debarr'd the full fruition 
Of thy favours, I may catch 
Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
Sidelong odours, that give life 
Like glances from a neighbour's wife ; 
And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
And in thy borders take delight, 
An unconquer'd Canaanite. 



A BALLAD: 

»OTlHO THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND FOOR, IN 

THE WATS OF A RICH NOBLe's PALACE AND 

A POOR WORKHOUSE. 



To tke Tune oftlie " Old and Young- Courtier." 



In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold ; 
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold : 
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, 
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their 
desire. 

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, 
They have store of good venison, with old canary 

wine. 
With singing and music to heighten the cheer ; 
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best 

fare. 

In a costly palace Youth is still carest 

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young 

Lord's jePt ; 
In a wretched v^orkhouse the contrary prevails : 
Does Age begin to prattle? — no man heark'neth 

to his tales. 

In a costly palsce if the child with a pin 

Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the 

doctor ifl called in ; 
In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish 
For want of proper cordials, which their old age 

might cherish 

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust ; 

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust. 



Thinks upon the- former days, when he was well 

to do. 
Had children to stand by him, both friends and 

kinsmen too. 

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides 
With a new devised peruke that reaches to his 

sides ; 
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, 
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold 

air. 

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, 
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by 

his side. 
That none to do them injuiy may have pretence ; 
Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence 



TO T. L. H. 



MoDEi, of thy parent dear. 
Serious infant worth a fear ; 
In thy unfaultering visage well 
Picturing forth the son of Tell, 
When on his forehead, firm and good, 
Motionless mark, the apple stood ; 
Guileless traitor, rebel mild, 
Convict unconscious, culprit-child i 
Gates that close with iron roar 
Have been to thee thy nursery door ; 
Chains that chink in cheerless cells 
Have been thy rattles and thy bells ; 
Walls contrived for giant sm 
Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in ; 
Neai- thy sinless bed black Guilt 
Her discordant house hath built. 
And filled it with her monstrous brood- 
Sights, by thee not understood — 
Sights of fear and of distress. 
That pass a harmless infant's guess! 

But the clouds, that overcast 
Thy young morning, may not last. 
Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour. 
That yields thee up to Nature's power. 
Nature, that so late doth greet thee, 
Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee. 
She shall recompense with cost 
For every lesson thou hast lost. 
Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill,* 
Thou shalt take thy airy fill 
Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing 
For thy delight each May morning. 
'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, 
Hardly less a lamb than they. 
Then thy prison's lengthened bound 
Shall be the horizon sldrting round. 
And, while thou fiU'st thy lap with fiowere, 
To make amends for wintery hours. 
The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, 
Shall from thy tender brow efface 
Each vestige of untimely care. 
That sour restraint had graven there ; 



* Hampstead. 



62 



CHARLES LAMB. 



And on thy every look impress 
A more excelling childishness. 

So shall be thy days beguil'd, 
Thohkton Hunt, my favourite child. 



LINES 



ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY I.EOWARDO DA 
VIUCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS. 

While young John runs to greet 

The greater Infant's feet, 

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion 

Of devout admiration. 

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty 
adoration ; 

Nor knows as yet the full event 

Of those so low beginnings, 

From whence we date our winnings, 

But wonders at the intent 

Of those new rites, and what that strange child- 
worship meant. 

But at her side *> 

An angel doth abide, 

With such a perfect joy 

As no dim doubts alloy, 

An intuition, 

A glory, an amenity. 

Passing the dark condition 

Of bhnd humanity. 

As if he surely knew 

All the blest wonders should ensue, 

Or he had lately left the upper sphere. 

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine 
riddles there. 



THE GIPSY'S MALISON. 

"Suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by 

giving. 

Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by 

wasting ; 

Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 

Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 

Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, 
Choke the warm breath that else would fall in 
blessings ; 
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty 
blisses 
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 

Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such 
forces. 
Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy 
clinging ; 
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless 
courses 
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, 
^.ud bann'd the ungiving door with lips pro- 
phetical. 



BALLAD. 



FROM THE GERMAN. 



The clouds are blackening, the storms threaten- 
ing, 
And ever the forest maketh a moan ; 
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching, 
Thus by herself she singeth alone, 
Weeping right plenteously. 

" The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, 
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss : 

To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, 
I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, 
Living right lovingly." 



SONNETS. 



TO MISS KELLY. 

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, 
That stoop their pride and female honour down 
To please that many-headed beast the town, 
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; 
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, 
You keep your native dignity of thought : 
The plaudits that attend you come unsought, 
As tributes due unto your natural vein. 
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace 
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; 
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot 

trace, 
That vanish and return we know not how— 
And please the better from a pensive face, 
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. 



II. 

ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KEN- 
SINGTON GARDEN. 

Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining nest. 
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest. 
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest 
Lest the white mother wandering feet molest : 
Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle. 
Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst 
Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first 
Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able 
To tread the land or waters with security. 
Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin. 
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in 
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. 
Did heavenly creatures own succession's Ihie, 
The births of heaven like to your's would shine. 



SONNETS. 



m 



III. 

Was it some sweet device of Faery 

That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, 

And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid ? 

Have these things been ? or what rare witchery, 

Impregning with dehghts the charmed air, 

Enlighted up the semblance of a smile 

In those fine eyes? methought they spake the 

while 
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair 
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by 
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade 
Slill court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid ? 
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh ? 
While I forlorn do wander reckless where, 
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. 



IV. 

Methihks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd 
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high 
Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, 
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind 
Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! 
Beloved ! I were well content to play 
With thy free tresses all a summer's day, 
Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. 
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale 
•Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, 
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ; 
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail 
In gentle sort, on those who practise not 
Or love or pity, though of woman born. 



Ween last I roved these ■winding wood-walks 

green, 
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, 
Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene. 
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. 
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade : 
Her image only in these pleasant ways 
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days 
I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. 
I passed the little cottage which she loved, 
The cottage which did once my all contain ; 
It spake of days which ne'er must come again. 
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. 
" Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !" I said, 
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. 



VI. 



A Train grace sits trembling in her eye, 

As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight, 

Yet flhcdding a delicious lunar light. 

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy 

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: 

Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess 

Her gentle sprite : peace, and meek quietness. 



And innocent loves, and maiden purity : 
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart 
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; 
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart 
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. 
Turned are those hghts from me, who fondly yet 
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. 



vn. 

If from my lips some angry accents fell. 
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind 
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer %vell, 
And waters clear, of Reason ; and for me 
Let this my verse the poor atonement be — 
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined 
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see 
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew 
Kindest affection ; and would oft-times lend 
An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, 
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay 
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, 
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. 



VIII. 

THE FAMILY NAME. 

What reason first im.posed thee, gentle name, 
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire. 
Without reproach ? we trace our stream no higher. 
And I, a childless man, may end the same. 
Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, 
In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, 
Received thee first amid the merry mocks 
And arch allusions of his fellow swains. 
Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned. 
With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd 
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord 
Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. 
Whate'er? the fount whence thy beginnings came 
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. 



TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE 
SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE. 

John, you were figuring in the gay career 
Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, 
When I was yet a httle peevish boy — 
Though time has made the difference disappear 
Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so great- 
And still by rightful custom you retain 
Much of the old authoritative strain, 
And keep the elder brother up in state. 
O ! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deea 
To let the " things that have been" run to waste. 
And in the unmeaning present sink the past: 
In whose dim glass even now I faintly read 
Old buried forms, and faces long ago, 
Which you, and I, and one more, only know, 



64 



CHARLES LAMB. 



O ! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, 
That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, 
Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep 
Lilie to a child. For now to my raised mind 
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, 
And her rude visions give severe delight. 
O winged bark ! how swift along the night 
Psiss'd thy proud keel ! nor shall I let go by 
Lightly of that drear hour the memory, 
When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, 
Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, 
Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die, — 
To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, 
Or take sny portion with the winds that rave. 



XL 

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she. 
The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, 
And Innocence her name. The time has been, 
We two did love each other's company ; 
Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. 
But when by show of seeming good beguil'd, 
I left the garb and manners of a child, 
And my first love for man's society, 
Defiling with the world my virgin heart — 
My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled. 
And hid in deepest shades her awful head. 
Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art — 
fci what delicious Eden to be found — 
That I may seek thee the wide world around ? 



BLANK VERSE 



COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT. 

From broken visions of perturbed rest 
I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. 
How total a privation of all sounds, 
Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, 
Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 
'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry 
Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise 
Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. 
Those are the moanings of the dying man. 
Who lies in the upper chamber ; restless moans, 
And interrupted only by a cough 
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. 
So in the bitterness of death he lies, 
And waits in anguish for the morning's light. 
What can that do for him, or what restore ? 
Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices. 
And little images of pleasures past. 
Of health, and active life — health not yet slain, 
Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold 
For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed 
He writhes, and turns him from the accusing hght, 
And finds no comfort in the sun, but says 
" When night comes I shall get a little rest." 
Some few groans more, death comes, and there 
an end. 



'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond ; 
Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, 
And Fancy, most licentious on such themes 
Where decent reverence well had kept her mute. 
Hath o'er.-stock'd hell with devils, and brought 

down, 
By her enormous fabiings and mad lies, 
Discredit on the gospel's serious truths 
And salutary fears. The man of parts. 
Poet, or prose declaimer, on. his couch 
Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates 
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he. 
Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels 
With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars 
Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far re- 
moved 
From damned spirits, and the torturing cries 
Of men, his brethren, fashioned of the earth, 
As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, 
Belike his kindred or companions once — 
Through everlasting ages now divorced, 
In chains and savage torments to repent 
Short years of folly on earth. Theii- groans un- 
heard 
In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care 
For those thus sentenced — pity might disturb 
The delicate sense £\nd most divine repose 
Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, 
The measure of his judgments is not fixed 
By man's erroneous standard. He discerns 
No such inordinate difference and vast 
Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom 
Such disproportion' d fates. Compared with him, 
No man on earth is holy called : they best 
Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet 
Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield 
To him of his own works the praise, his due. 



THE GRANDAME. 

Ow the green hill top, 
Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof. 
And not distinguish' d from its neighbour-barn, 
Save by a slender-tapering length of spire. 
The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely l;ellB 
The name and date to the chance passenger. 
For lovvly born was she, and long had eat, 
Well-earned, the bread of service : — her's was 

else 
A mounting spirit, one that entertained 
Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable. 
Or aught unseemly. I remember well 
Her reverend image: I remember, too. 
With what a zeal she served her master's house ; 
And how the pratthng tongue of garrulous age 
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale 
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she vtfas, 
And wondrous skilled in genealogies. 
And could in apt and voluble terms discourse 
Of births, of titles, and alliances; 
Of marriages, and intermarriages ; 
Relationship remote, or near of kin ; 
Of friends offended, family disgraced — 
Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying 
Parental strict injunction, and regardless 
Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote. 



BLANK VERSE.— MISCELLANEOUS, 



65 



Stooping to wed with one of low degree. 
But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong 
Thy honour' d memory, recording chiefly 
Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, 
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love. 
She served her heavenly Master. I have seen 
That reverend form bent down with age and pain, 
And rankhng malady. Yet not for this 
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew 
Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope — 
So meekly had she learned lo bear her cross — 
For she had studied patience in the school 
Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, 
And was a follower of the Nazakene. 



CHILDHOOD. 

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 

Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 

Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; 

To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, 

Down which the child would roll ; to pluck gay 

flowers, 
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand 
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled.) 
Would throw away, and straight take up again, 
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn 
Bound with so playfiil and so light a foot. 
That the press' d daisy scarce decHned her head. 



FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE 
SUBJECTS. 

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, 
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk 
In the bright visions of empyreal light. 
By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads. 
Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow ; 
By crystal streams, and by the living waters, 
^^ng whose margin grows the wondrous tree 
^Hiose leaves shall heal the nations ; underneath 
Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found 
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait 
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever. 



THE SABBATH BELLS. 

The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard. 

Strike pleasant on the sense, most hke the voice 

Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims 

Tidings of good to Zion : chiefly when 

Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear 

Of the contemplant, sohtary man. 

Whom thoughts abtruse or high have chanced to 

lure 
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, 
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes 
And baffles his pursuit — thought-sick and tired 
Of controversy, where no end appears, 
No clue to his research, the lonely man 
Half wishes for society again. 
9 



Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute 
Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in 
The cheering music ; his relenting soul 
Yearns after all the joys of social Hfe, 
And softens with the love of human kind. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON 
AS BORN. 

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 

A curious frame of Nature's work. 

A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 

A nameless piece of Babyhood, 

Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : 

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 

For darker closets of the tomb ! 

She did but ope an eye, and put 

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 

For the long dark : ne'er more to see 

Through glasses of mortality. 

Riddle of destiny, who can show 

What thy short visit meant, or know 

What thy errand here below ? 

Shall we say, that Nature blind 

Check'dher hand, and changed her mind, 

Just when she had exactly wrought 

A finish' d pattern without fault ? 

Could she flag, or could she tire. 

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 

That should thy little hmbs have quicken'd I 

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 

Life of health, and days mature: 

Woman's self in miniature ! 

Limbs so fair, they might supply 

(Themselves now but cold imagery) 

The sculptor to make Beauty by. 

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, 

That babe, or mother, one must die ; 

So in mercy left the stock, 

And cut the branch ; to save the shock 

Of young years widow'd; and the pain, 

When Single State comes back again 

To the lone man who, 'reft of wife. 

Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 

The economy of Heaven is dark ; 

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, 

Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, 

More brief than fly ephemeral. 

That has his day ; while shrivel' d crones 

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 

And crabbed use the conscience sears 

In sinners of an hundred years. 

Mother's prattle, mother's kiss. 

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. 

Rites, which custom does impose, 

Silver bells and baby clothes ; 

Coral redder than those lips. 

Which pale death did late eclipse ; 

Music framed for infants' glee, 

Whistle never tuned for thee ; 



66 



CHARLES LAMB 



Though thou want' St not, thou shall have them, 

Loving hearts were they which gave them. 

Let not one be missing ; nurse, 

See them laid upon the hearse 

Of infant slain by doom perverse. 

Why should kings and nobles have 

Pictured trophies to their grave ; 

And we, churls, to thee deny 

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 

A more harmless vanity ? 



TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. 

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS. 

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then 
Esteemed you a perfect specimen 
Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends. 
To teach us colder English how a friend's 
Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and 

plain, 
Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain ; 
But nothing further had the gift to espy. 
Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I 
Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a 

scene 
Only to his inferior in the clean 
Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art — 
Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. 
Almost without the aid language affords. 
Your piece seems wrought. That huffing me- 
dium, words, 
(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway 
Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play 
We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws 
Our tears on credit : and we find the cause 
Some two hours after, spelling o'er again 
Those strange few words at ease, that wrought 

the pain. 
Proceed, old friend ; and, as the year returns. 
Still snatch some new old story from the urns 
Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before 
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you 
more. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY- 
DAY BOOK." 

I LIKE you, and your book, ingenuous Hone ! 

In whose capacious all-embracing leaves 
The very marrow of tradition's shown ; 

And all that history — much that fiction — weaves. 

By every sort of taste your v/ork is graced. 

Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, 
With good old story quaintly interlaced — 

The theme as various as the reader's mind. 

Rome's he-fraught legends you so truly paint — 
Yet kindly, — that the half-turn'd Catholic 

Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, 
Aiid cannot curse the candid heretic. 



Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your 
page ; 
Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased be- 
hold, 
And, proudly conscious of a purer age, 
Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. 

Verse-honouring Fhcebus, Father of bright Days, 
Must needs bestow on you both good and many. 

Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, 
Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any. 

Dan Phoebus loves your book — trust me, friend 
Hone — 

The title only errs, he bids me say : 
For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, 

He swears, 'tis not a work oi every day. 



[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the ' Lives of the 
Saints, written in Spanish by the learned and reve- 
rend father, Alfonso ViUegas, Divine, of the Order 
of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John 
Heighain, Anno 1630,' bought at a Catholic book -shop 
in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 1 found, care- 
fully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval 
with the book itself; and did not, for some time, dis- 
cover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover 
to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the 
Virgin and Child ; doubtless the performance of 
some poor, but pious Catholic, whose meditations it 
assisted.] 

O LIFT with reverent hand that tarnish' d flower, 
That 'shrines beneath her modest canopy 
Memorials dear to Romish piety ; 
Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints ! in ferveat 

hour 
The work perchance of some meek devotee. 
Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth 
The sanctities she worshipped to their worth, 
In this imperfect tracery might see 
Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. 
Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told 
Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, 
That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. 
True love shows costliest, where the means arc 

scant ; 
And, in her reckoning, they abound, who want. 



TRANSLATIONS 



FROM THE LATIN 0"F VINCENT BOURNE. 



ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF 
AN INFANT ':,LEEPING. 

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep 

Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep. 

May the repose unbroken be, 

Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, 

While thouenjoy'st along with it 

That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, 

Or counterfeit to mortal sense, 

The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 



67 



ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.* 

And halh thy blameless life become 

A prey to the devom-ing tomb ? 

A more mute silence hast thou known, 

A deafness deeper than thine own, 

While Time was ? and no friendly Muse, 

That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, 

Repair with quickening verse the breach, 

And write thee into light and speech ? 

The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd 

Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd ; 

Who made the Hearing, without wrong 

Did rescue thine from Siren's song. 

He let thee see the ways of men. 

Which thou with pencil, not with pen, 

Careful Beholder, down didst note. 

And all their motley actions quote. 

Thyself unstain'd the while. From look 

Or gesture reading, more than booh, 



* Benjamin Ferrers— Died A. D. 1732. 



In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, 
Contented with the Silent Art, 
Thyself as silent. Might I be 
As speechless, deaf, and good, as He ! 



THE HOUSE-KEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, 
Carries his house with him, where'er he goes ; 
Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain, 
Retreats to his small domicile amain. 
Touch but a tip of him, a horn — 'tis well — 
He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 
He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay 
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
Himself he boards arid lodges ; both invites, 
And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. 
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
Chatties ; himself is his own furniture, 
And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam- 
Knock when you will — he's sure to be at home. 



JAMES HOGG. 



James Hogg was born on the 25ih of January, 
1772, in a cottage on the banks of the Ettrick, in 
the shire of Selkirk. He was descended from a 
race of shepherds who had inhabited, for centu- 
ries, the sequested district in which was the Poet's 
birth-place : humble as was the calling of his fa- 
ther, it was not beyond the reach of misfortune. 
When James was scarcely more than a child, he 
was compelled to labour for his own living ; and 
engaged himself to herd cows, with a neighbour- 
ing farmer. The good seed had, however, been 
sown; sound and upright principles had taken 
root in his mind, and his fancy had been nursed, 
unconsciously, by his mother, whose memory 
was stored with old Border ballads. His elder 
brother states that James was what is called in the 
language of his native valley, a soft, ' ' actionless" 
boy ; and that in early life he gave no token of the 
genius which afterwards astonished and delighted 
his countrymen. The scenery amid which he 
lived and rambled, the utter seclusion in which 
the shepherds of Ettrick dwelt, and his lonely, yet 
happy occupation among his native glens and 
moimtains, gathered the intellectual wealth which 
the simple shepherd was destined to scatter among 
mankind : the ' ' actionless' ' boy soon gave proof 
that he was also contemplative ; he spoke songs 
loiig before he could write them. For many 
years, until indeed he had grown to manhood, his 
fame was limited to his own neighbourhood, at 
length, chance conducted him to Edinburgh ; a 
small printed volume Vi^as the result; it was soon 
followed by "The Mountain Bard:" and the 
world began to speak of the Shepherd of Ettrick. 
Still he continued to "tend his flock ;" and it was 
not mrtil his reputation had very widely spread, 
that he commenced farming on his own account. 
In 1821, he took the farm of Mount Benger ; it 
was a disastrous attempt to better his fortunes, 
and it exhausted the money his literary labours 
had collected. From the period of his first ap- 
pearance before the pubhc, he passed scarcely a 
year without furnishing something for the press. 
" The Mountain Bard" was followed by the 
" Queen's Wake ;" — " The Witch of Fife," and 
" QueenHynde," established his fame as a Poet ; 
and " The Border Tales," and other pubhcations 
gave him a prominent station as a writer of prose. 
Fortunate in the friendship of such men as Scott 
and Wilson, happy in his home, and admired by 
the world, with a disposition naturally cheerful, 



he had but one drawback from the happiness of 
Ufe : his pecuniary circumstances were by no 
means prosperous towards the close of it ; and 
left a widow and five children in poverty. He 
died on the 21st of November, 1835. 

Hogg visited London in 1833 ; — although ac- 
customed to the comparatively rude society of 
mountaineers, he was perfectly easy and self-pos- 
sessed — because natural — in the polished circles 
into which he was eagerly welcomed. His glow- 
ing and kindly countenance, his cheerful smile, 
his rousing and hearty laugh, the originality of 
his remarks, his gentle satire, his continual flow 
of wit, the rough but becoming manner in which 
he sang his own ballads, gained for him, person- 
ally, the " golden opinions" which had previously 
been accorded to his genius. He was somewhat 
above the middle height, — of a muscular frame ; 
he had a sharp, clear, grey eye, an expansive 
forehead, and sandy hair ; and the soundness of 
his constitution was evident from the fresh and 
ruddy colour of his cheeks. He was kind and 
liberal to a degree ; and, although he manifested, 
occasionally, the irritability of his " class," all his 
friends loved him. 

If we are to class James Hogg among unedu- 
cated Poets, he must undoubtedly rank at the 
head of them. But as he had lived thirty years 
before he made the world acquainted with his 
powers, we can scarcely consider his productions 
as the mere offspring of his mind, unformed by 
knowledge and unaided by experience. He was 
unquestionably a man of fine original genius ; and 
he confined himself to those topics with which his 
early habits and associations rendered him fa- 
miliar. His happiest and most popular poems are 
those v/hich dwell most on the scenes and legends 
of the hills and valleys of his native land. There 
is, perhaps, a national tone and feeling in his writ- 
ings, in vjhich we Southrons do not wholly sym- 
pathize ; but in his own country we must consider 
him to be rather under than over-rated. Born in 
the very humblest condition of life, reared under 
circumstances most adverse to the growth and 
development of mind, he obtained a popularity 
second only to that of Burns ; — he has written his 
name on enduring tablets in the literary annals of 
Great Britain, and it will go down to posterity 
with that of the most eminent of his many emi- 
nent countrymen. Such is the triumph which 
genius, even unaided, can achieve. 

68 



SONGS, 



69 



SONGS 



THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 

Tune — OUderoy. 

An' art thou fled, my bonny boy, 

An' left me here alane ! 
Wha now will love, or care for me. 

When thou art dead an' gane ? 
Thy father fell in freedom's cause, 

With gallant Moor, in Spain : 
Now thou art gane, my bonny boy, 

An' left me here alane- 

1 hop'd, when thou wert grown a man. 

To trace his looks in thine ; 
An' saw, wi' joy, thy sparkling eye 

Wi' kindling vigour sliine. 
I thought when I was fail'd, I might 

Wi' you an' yours remain ; 
But thou art fled, my bonny boy, 

An' left me here alane. 

Now clos'd an' set that sparkhng eye ! 

Thy breast is cauld as clay ! 
An' a' my hope, an' a' my joy, 

Wi' thee are reft away. 
An' fain wad I that comely clay 

Reanimate again ! 
But thou art fled, my bonny boy, 

An' left me here alane. 

The flower now fading on the lea, 

Shall fresher rise to view ; 
The leaf, just fallen from the tree. 

The year will soon renew : 
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave, 

Ere you revive again '. 
For thou art fled, my bonny boy ! 

An' left me here alane. 



THE FLOWER 



SOFTLY blow, thou biting blast, 

O'er Yarrow's lonely dale ; 
And spare yon bonny, tender bud, 

Exposed to every gale ; 
Long has she hung her drooping head, 

Despairing to survive, 
But transient sun-beams, through the cloud, 

Still kept my flower alive. 

One sweetly scented summer eve 

To yonder bower I stray'd ; 
While little birds from every bough 

Their music wild convey' d ; 
The sun-beam lean'd across the shower. 

The rainbow girt the sky ; 
'Twas then I saw this lovely flower, 

And wonder fiU'd mine eye. 

Her border was the purple tint 

Stole from the rising sun; 
The whitish feather, from the swan, 

Upon her breast was dim : 



Her placid smile was love and grace 

Must ev'ry bosom win ; 
The dew-drops glist'ning on her face, 

Show'd all was pm-e within. 

But frost, on cold misfortune's wdng. 

Hath criish'd her into clay ; 
And ruthless fate hath rudely torn 

Each kindred branch away : 
That wounded bark will never close, 

But bleeding still remain ! 
How can ye blow, relentless winds, 

And nip my flower agaui ? 



LORD EGLINTON'S AULD MAN. 

The auld gudeman cam hame at night, 

Sair wearied wi' the way ; 
His looks were like an evening bright, 

His hair was siller gray. 
He spake o' days, lang past an' gane. 
When life beat high in every vein ; 
When he was foremost on the plain 

On every blythsome day. 

"Then blythly blush'd the mornin' dawnn, 

An' gay the gloamin' fell ; 
For sweet content led aye the van. 

An' sooth' d the passions well ; 
Till wounded by a gilded dart. 
When Jeanie's een subdued my heart, 
I cherish' d ay the pleasing smart, — 

Mair sweet than I can tell. 

We had our griefs, we had our joys, 

In hfe's uneasy way ; 
We nourish' d virtuous girls an' boys, 

That now are far away : 
An' she, my best, my dearest part, 
The sharer o' each joy an' smart, 
Each wish and weakness o' my heart, 

Lies moulderin' in the clay. 

The life o' man's a winter day; 

Look back, 'tis gone as soon : 
But yet his pleasures have the way. 

An' fly before 'tis noon. 
But conscious virtue still maintains 
The honest heart through toils an' pains, 
An' hope o' better days remains, 

An' hauds the heart aboon." 



BONNY MARY. 



Where Scaur rins wimphng 'mang the rocks, 

And wheels and boils in mony a hnn, 
A brisk young shepherd fed his flocks, 

Unus'd to guile, to strife, or din ; 
But love its silken net had thrown 

Around his breast so brisk and airy ; 
And his blue eyes wi' moisture shone 

As thus he sung of Bonny Mary. 

When o'er the Lowther's haughty head 
The morning breaks in streaks aae bonny. 

I climb the mountain's lonely side, 
For quiet rest I get na ony. 



70 



JAMES HOGG 



How sweet the brow on yon hill cheek ! 

Where mony a weary hour I tarry ; 
For there I see the twisted reek 

Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary. 

Oft has the lark sung o'er my head, 

And shook the dew-draps frae her wing : 
Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed, 

And round their shepherd form'd a ring ; 
Their looks condole the lee-lang day, 

While mine are fix'd and canna vary ; 
Oft hae they listen' d to my lay 

Of faith and love to Bonny Mary. 

When Phoebus mounts frae Crawford-muir, 

His gowden locks a' streaming gaily ; 
When morn has breath'd its fragrance pure, 

And life and joy rings through the valley ; 
I drive my flocks to yonder brook. 

The feeble in my arms I carry ; 
Then every lammie's harmless look 

Brings to my mind my Bonny Mary. 

When gloamin' o'er the welkin steals, 

And haps the hills in sober gray ; 
And bitterns, in their airy wheels, 

Amuse the wanderer on his way : 
Regardless of the wind and rain. 

With cautious step and prospect virary, 
I often trace the lonely glen 

To get a sight of Bonny Mary. 

When midnight draws her curtain deep. 

And lays the breeze among the bushes, 
And Scaur, wi' mony a winding sweep. 

O'er rocks of reddle raves and rushes ; 
Though sunk in short and restless sleep. 

My fancy wings her flight so airy 
To where sweet guardian spirits keep 

Their watch around the couch of Mary. 

The exile may forget his home. 

Where blooming youth to manhood grew ; 
The bee forget the honey-comb. 

Nor with the spring his toil renew ; 
The sun may lose his light and heat ; 

The planets in their rounds miscarry ; 
But my fond heart shall cease to beat 

When I forget my Bonny Mary. 



MY BLYTHE AN' BONNY LASSIE. 

Tune — JVeiZ Goto's Farewell to Whiskey. 

How sair my heart nae man shall ken 
When I took leave o' yonder glen. 
Her faithful dames, her honest men. 

Her streams sae pure an' glassy, O ; 
Her woods that skirt the verdant vale, 
Her balmy breeze sae brisk an' hale, 
Her flower of every flower the wale, 

My biythe an' bonny lassie, .' 

The night was short, the day was lang, 
An' ay we sat the birks amang, 
'Til o'er my head the blackbird sang 

Gae part wi' that dear lassie, O. 
When on Lamgaro's top sae green 
The rising sun-beam red was seen. 



Wi' aching heart I left my Jean, 
My biythe an' bonny lassie, O. 

Her form is gracefu' as the pine ; 
Her smile the sunshine after rain ; 
Her nature cheerfu' , frank an' kind, 

An' neither proud nor saucy, 0. 
The ripest cherry on the tree 
Was ne'er sae pure or meek to see. 
Nor half sae sweet its juice to me. 

As a kiss o' my dear lassie, O. 

Whate'er I do, whate'er I be. 
Yon glen shall ay be dear to me ; 
Her banks and howms sae fair to see ; 

Her braes sae green an' grassy, O : 
For there my hopes are centred a' ; 
An' there my heart was stol'n awa' ; 
An' there my Jeanie first I saw. 

My biythe an' bonny lassie, 0. 



THE BRAES OF BUSHBY. 

Ae glentin' cheerfu' simmer morn. 
As I cam o'er the riggs o' Lorn, 
I heard a lassie all forlorn 

Lamentin' for her Johnny, O. 
Her wild notes pour'd the air alang ; 
The Highland rocks an' woodlands rang ; 
An' ay the o'erword o' her sang 

Was Bushby braes are bonny, O. 

On Bushby braes where blossoms blow, 
Where blooms the brier an' sulky sloe, 
There first I met my only joe. 

My dear, my faithfu' Johnny, O ; 
The grove was dark, sae dark an' sweet; 
Where first my lad an' I did meet ; 
The roses blush'd around our feet : 

Then Bushby braes were bonny, O. 

Departed joys, how soft ! how dear ! 
That frae my e'e still wrings the tear! 
Yet still the hope my heart shall cheer 

Again to meet my Johnny, O. 
The primrose saw, an' blue hare-bell, 
But nane o' them our love can tell. 
The thrilHng joy I felt too well. 

When Bushby braes were bonny, O. 

My lad is in the Baltic gane 

To fight the proud an' doubtfu' Dane. 

For our success my heart is fain ; 

But 'tis maistly for my Johnny, O. 
Then, Cupid, smooth the German sea, 
An' bear him back to Lorn an' me ! 
An' a' my life I'll singwi' glee. 

The Bushby braes are bonny, O. 



THE HAY-MAKERS. 

Tune— Coming through the Rye. 

" My lassie, how I'm charm'd wi' you 

'Tis needless now to tell ; 
But a' the flowers the meadow throught 

Ye're sweetest ay yoursel' ; 



SONGS. 



n 



I canna sleep a wink by night, 
Nor think a thought by day ; 

Your image smiles afore my sight 
Whate'er I do or say." 

" Fye, Jamie ! dinna act the part 

Ye' 11 ever blush to own ; 
Or try to wile my youthfu' heart 

Frae reason's sober throne ; 
Sic visions I can ne'er approve, 

Nor ony wakin' dream ; 
Than trust sic fiery, furious love, 

I'd rather hae esteem." 

" My bonny lassie, come away, 

I canna bide your frown ; 
Wi' ilka flower, sae fresh an' gay, 

I'll deck your bosom round : 
I'll pu' the gowan off the glen ; 

The lily off the lee; 
The rose an' hawthorn bud I'll twine 

To make a bob for thee." 

" Aye, Jamie, ye wad steal my heart, 

An' a' my peace frae me ; 
An' fix my feet within the net, 

Ere I my error see. 
I trow ye' 11 wale the flowery race 

My bosom to adorn ; 
An' ye confess ye' re gaun to place 

Within my breast a thorn." 

" How can my lassie be sae tart, 

An' vex me a' the day ? 
Ye ken I lo'e wi' a' my heart. 

What wad ye hae me say ? 
lUi anxious wish an' little care 

I'll in thy breast confide, 
An' a' your joys an' sorrows share, 

If ye'll become my bride." 

" Then tak my hand, ye hae my heart ; 

There's nane I like sae weel ; 
An' Heaven grant I act my part 

To ane sae true an' leal. 
This bonny day amang the hay, 

I'll mind till death us twine ; 
An' often bless the happy day 

That made my laddie mine." 



BAULDY FRASER. 

Tune— Whigs o' J^X;*- 

My name is Bauldy Fraser, man; 
I'm puir, an' auld, an' pale, an' wan, 
I brak my shin, an' tint a han' 

Upon CuUoden lee, man. 
Our Highlan' clans war bauld an' stout, 
An' thought to turn their faes about, 
But gat that day a desperate rout, 

An' owre the hills did flee, man. 

Sic hurly-burly ne'er was seen, 
Wi' cuffs, an' buffs, an' bhndit een, 
While Highlan' swords, o' metal keen, 
War gleamin' grand to see, man. 



The cannons rowtit in our face, 
An' brak our banes an' laive our claes ; 
'Twas then we saw our ticklish case 
Atween the deil an' sea, man. 

Sure Charlie an' the brave Lochyell 
Had been that lime beside their sel', 
To plant us in the open fell. 

In the artillery's e'e, man ; 
For had we m.et wi' Cumberland, 
By Athol braes, or yonder strand, 
The blude o' a' the savage band 

Had dy'd the German sea, man. 

But down we drappit dadd for dadd ; 
I thought it sude hae put me mad. 
To see sae mony a Highlan' lad 

Lie bluthrin' on the brae, man. 
I thought we ance had won the fray ; » 
We smasht ae wing till it gae way ; 
But the other side had lost the day, 

An' skelpit fast awa, man. 

When Charlie wi' Macpherson met. 
Like Hay, he thought him back to get; 
"We'll turn," quo' he, "an' try them yet; 

We'll conquer or we'll dee, man." 
But Donald jum.pit owre the burn, 
An' sware an aith she wadna turn. 
Or sure she wad hae cause to mourn ; 

Then fast away did flee, man. 

O ! had you seen that hunt o' death ! 
We ran until we tint our breath. 
Ay looking back for fear o' skaith 

Wi' hopeless shinin' e'e, man. 
But Britain ever may deplore 
That day upon Drumossie moor, 
Whar thousands ta'en war drench' d in gore, 

Or hang'd outow'r a tree, man. 

Cumberland! what mean'd ye then 

To ravage ilka Highlan' glen ? 

Our crime was truth an' love to ane ; 

We had nae spite at thee, man. 
An' you or yours may yet be glad 
To trust the honest Highlan' lad ; 
The bonnet blue an' belted plaid 

Will stand the last o' three, man. 



SCOTIA'S GLENS. 

Tune — Lord Ballandine's Delight. New Bet. 

'MoNG Scotia's glens an' mountains blue, 
Where Gallia's lilies never grew, 
Wheie Roman eagles never flew. 

Nor Danish lions rallied ; 
Where skulks the roe in anxious fear, 
Where roves the stately, nimble deer. 
There live the lads to freedom dear, 

Byforeigh yoke ne'er galled. 

There woods grow wild on every hill ; 
There freemen wander at their will ; 
Sure Scotland will be Scotland still 
While hearts so brave defend her. 



72 



JAMES HOGG 



" Fear not, our Sov'reign liege," they cry, 
" We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye ; 
For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die, 
Nor aught but hfe surrender. 

Since thou hast watch' d our every need. 
And taught our navies wide to spread, 
The smallest hair from thy gray head 

No foreign foe shall sever. 
Thy honour' d age in peace to save 
The sternest host we'll dauntless brave, 
Or stem the fiercest Indian wave, 

Nor heart nor hand shall waver. 

Though nations join yon tyrant's arm, 
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm, 
Our good old man we'll guard from harm, 

Or fall in heaps around him. 
Although the Irish harp were won, 
And England's roses all o'errun, 
'Mong Scotia's glens with sword and gun, 

We'll form a bulwark round him." 



THE EMIGRANT. 

Air — Lochabar no more. 

May morning had shed her red streamers on high 
O'er Canada, frowning all pale on the sky ; 
Still dazzUng and white was the robe that she 

wore, 
Except where the mountain wave dash'd on the 

shore. 
Far heav'd the young sun like a lamp on the 

wave, 
And loud scream' d the gull o'er his foam-beaten 

cave. 
When an old lyart swain on a headland stood high , 
With the staff in his hand, and the tear in his eye. 

His old tartan plaid, and his bonnet so blue, 
Declar'd from what country his lineage he drew ; 
His visage so wan, and his accents so low, 
Announc'd the companion of sorrow and woe. 
" Ah welcome, thou sun, to thy canopy grand. 
And to me ! for thou com'st from my dear native 

land ! 
Again dost thou leave that sweet isle of the sea. 
To beam on these winter-bound vaUies and me ! 

How sweet in my own native valley to roam ! 
Each face was a friend's, and each house was a 
home; 



To drag our live thousands from river or bay ; 
Or chase the dun deer o'er the mountain so gray. 
Here daily I wander to sigh on the steep ; 
My old bosom friend was laid lov/ in yon deep ; 
My family and friends to extremity driven, 
Contending for life both with earth and with 
heaven 

My country, they said, — but they told me a lie, — 
Her vallies were barren, inclement her sky ; 
Even now in the glens, 'mong her mountains so 

blue, 
The primrose and daisy are blooming in dew. 
How could she expel fi-om those mountains of 

heath 
The clans who maintain' d them in danger and 

death ! 
Who ever were ready the broad-sword to draw 
In defence of her honour, her freedom and law. 
We stood by our Stuart, till one fatal blow 
Loos'd Ruin triumphant, and valour laid low. 
Our chief, whom we trusted, and liv'd but to 

please. 
Then turn'd us adrift to the storms and the seaa. 
O gratitude ! where didst thou linger the while ? 
What region afar is ilium' d with thy smile ? 
That orb of the sky for a home will I crave, 
When yon sun rises red on the Emigrant's grave." 



HIGHLAND HARRY BACK AGAIN. 



The following Song was composed for, and sung a' 
the celebration of the Earl of Balkeith's birth-day 
at Selkirk, on the 24th May. 



Ye forest flowers so fresh and gay, 

Let all your hearts be light and fain ; 
For once this blest auspicious day, 

Brought us a Harry back again. 
The wild-bird's hush'd on Ettrick braes, 

And northward turns the nightly wain; 
Let's close with glee this wale of days, 

To us so welcome back again. 
May blessings wait that noble Scot, 

Who loves to hear the shepherd's strain 
And long in peace may be his lot 

To see this day cotne back again. 
His heart so kind, his noble mind, 

His loyal course without a stain. 
And choice's fair, all, all declare 

He'll just be Harry back again. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, on the 
28th of May, 1780. At the age of fourteen he en- 
tered the university of his native city, where he 
took his degree. In 1799, he became a member 
of the Middle Temple, and was called to the Bar. 
Before he had completed his twentieth year, he 
published his Translations of the Odes of Ana- 
creon ; and, at once, "became famous." The 
work was dedicated to the Prince of Wales, and 
led to an introduction to his royal highness, and a 
subsequent intimacy of which a variety of anec- 
dotes are related ; but that it terminated disadvan- 
tageously for both, we have unquestionable proof 
in the pages of some of the Poet's later writings. 
In 1803, Mr. Moore obtained an official situation 
at Bermuda ; he filled it but for a short period, and 
returned to England. In 1806, he published the 
" Odes and Epistles ;" in 1808, "Poems," under 
the assumed name of Thomas Little ; in 1817, 
" Lalla Rookh ;" and in 1823, " The Loves of 
the Angels." Besides these Poems, Mr. Moore 
has printed a variety of light political squibs, the 
value of which naturally ceased with the topics 
that called them forth. 

Mr. Moore resides in the vicinity of Bowood, — 
the seat of his friend Lord Lansdowne, near 
Calne. He has preferred retirement to celebrity 
— except that which the Muses have so lavishly 
bestowed upon him ; and resists all attempts to 
allure him into the arena of public life. It will 
be readily believed that he is the idol of the circle 
in which he moves. A finer gentleman, in the 
better sense of the term, is nowhere to be found : 
his learning is not only extensive, but sound ; and 
he 13 pre-eminent for those qualities which attract 
and charm in society. His voice, though not of 
large compass, is wonderfully sweel and eflective, 
and he is a good musician; — to hear him sing one 
of his own melodies, is, indeed, a rich treat. In 
person, he is " Little," and the expression of his 
countenance is rather joyous than dignified ; there 
is, however, a peculiar kindhness in his look and 
manner which in no way detracts from the enthu- 
sin,<m his presence cannot fail to excite. 

■t is scarcely necessary to comment upon the 
poiiry of Thomas Moore. It has been more ex- 
tensively read than that of any existing author ; 
thoae who might not have sought it otherwise, 
have become familiar with it through the medium 



of the delicious music to which it has been wed- 
ded ; and it would be difficult to find a single indi- 
vidual in Great Britain unable to repeat some of 
his verses. No writer, living or dead, has en- 
joyed a popularity so miiversal : and if an author's 
position is to depend on the delight he produces, 
we must class the author of "Lalla Rookh," 
and the "Irish Melodies," as " chiefest of the 
Bards" of modern times. His poetry, however, 
is deficient in those higher and more enduring 
materials which form the ground-work of impe- 
rishable fame. Its leading attribute is grace. 
The Poet rarely attempts, and more rarely suc- 
ceeds, in fathoming the depths of the human 
heart, and laying open the rich vein that has been 
hidden by the dull quarry: he is always brilliant, 
but seldom powerful; he is an epicurean in poe- 
try, and turns away from all objects which do not 
yield enjoyment. His fancy is perpetually at 
play ; — things which please the senses are more 
contemplated than those which excite or control 
the passions, and while he 

"Lives in a bright little world of his own," 
we must not mistake the dazzling and brilliant 
light which surrounds him, for the animating and 
invigorating sun. 

His poetry is exquisitely finished : we never en- 
counter a line or even a word that grates upon 
j the ear; it is " harmony, delicious harmony," un- 
broken by a single jarring note. 

We are by no means singular in thinking tliat 
the "Irish Melodies" must be considered as the 
most valuable and enduring of all his works; they 

" Circle his name with a charm against licath ;"' 
and as a writer of song he stands without a rival 
Mr. Moore found the national music of liis coun- 
try, with very few exceptions, debased by a union 
with words that were either unseemly or unintel- 
ligible. It was, therefore, comparatively lost to 
the world ; and time was rapidly diminishing that 
which memory alone preserved. The attempt to 
combine it with appropriate language was com- 
menced in 1807. Its success is almost without 
parallel in the history of hterature. The music 
of Ireland is now known and appreciated all over 
the world ; and the songs of the Irish Poet wiL 
endure as long as the country, the loves and 
glories of which they commemorate. 



10 



73 



74 



THOMAS MOORE. 



ALCIPHRON. 



LETTER I. 

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON 
AT ATHENS. 

Well may you wonder at my flight 

From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers 
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, 
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's hght, 

Is left to grace this world of ours. 
Well may my comrades, as they roam. 

On evenings sweet as this, inquire 
Why I have left that happy home 

Where all is found that all desire 

And Time hath wings that never tire ; 
Where bliss, in all the countless shapes 

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, 
Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes 

That woo the traveller's lip, at even ; 
Where Wisdom flings not joy away,' — 
As Pallas in the stream, they say, 
Once flung her flute, — but smihng owns 
That woman's lip can send forth tones 
Worth all the music of those spheres 
So many dream of, but none hears ; 
Where Virtue's self puts on so well 

Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loth 
From either nymph apart to dwell. 

We finish by embracing both. 

Yes, such the place of bhss, I own. 
From all whose charms I just have flown ; 
And ev'n while thus to thee I write, 

And by the Nile's dark flood rechne, 
Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight 
Back to those groves and gardens bright, 
And often think, by this sweet light. 

How lovelily they all must shine ; 
Can see that graceful temple throw 

Down the green slope its lengthen'd shade, 
While, on the marble steps below. 

There sits some fair Athenian maid, 
Over some favourite volume bending ; 

And, by her side, a youthful sage 
Holds back the ringlets that, descending, 

Would else o'ershadow all the page. 
But hence such thoughts ! — nor let me grieve. 
O'er scenes of joy that I but leave. 
As the bird quits awhile its nest 
To come again with livelier zest. 

And now to tell thee — what I fear 
Thou' It gravely smile at — why I'm here. 
Though through my life's short sunny dream, 

I've floated without pain or care, 
Like a hght leaf, down pleasure's stream, 

Caught in each sparkhng eddy there ; 
Though never P*Iirth awake a strain 
That my heart echoed not again ; 
Yet have T felt, when ev'n most gay. 

Sad thoughts — I knew not whence or why — 

Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, 
Like clouds, that, ere we've time to say 

" How bright the sky is !" shade the sky. 



Sometimes so vague, so undefin'd 
Were these strange darkenings of my mind- 
While nought but joy around me beam'd 

So causelessly they've come and flown, 
That not of life or earth th»y seem'd, 

But shadows from some world unknown. 
More oft, however, 'twas the thought 

How soon that scene, with all its play 

Of life and gladness, must decay, — 
Those lips I prest, the hands I caught — 
Myself, — the crowd that mirth had brought 

Around me, — swept like weeds away ! 

This thought it was that came to shed 

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys ; 
And, close as shade with sunshine, wed 

Its sadness with my happiest joys. 
Oh, but for this disheart'ning voice 

Stealing amid our mirth to say 
That all, in which we most rejoice. 

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey— 
But for this bitter — only this — 
Full as the v/orld is brimm'd with bliss, 
And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its dregs the whole, 
I should turn earth to heav'n, and be, 
If bliss made Gods, a Deity ! 

Thou know' St that night — the very last 
That with my Garden friends I pass'd— 
When the School held its feast of mirth 
To celebrate our founder's birth. 
And all that He in dreams but saw 

When he set Pleasure on the throne 
Of this bright world, and wrote her law 

In human hearts, was felt and known— 
Not in unreal dreams, but true. 
Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew, — 
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt 
Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt. 

That night, when all our mirth was o'er, 

The minstrels silent, and the feet 
Of the young maidens heard no more — 

So stilly was the time, so sweet. 
And such a calm came o'er that scene. 
Where hfe and revel late had been — 
Lone as the quiet of some bay. 
From which the sea hath ebb'd away — 
That still I linger'd, lost in thought, 

Gazing upon the stars of night. 
Sad and intent, as if I sought 

Some mournful secret in their light ; 
And ask'd them, mid that silence, why 
Man, glorious man, alone must die. 
While they, less wonderful than he, 
Shine on through all eternity. 

That night — thou haply may' st forget 

Its loveliness — hut 'twas a night 
To make earth's meanest slave regret 

Leaving a world so soft and bright. 
On one side, in the dark blue sky, 
Lonely and radiant, loas the eye 
Of Jove himself, while, on the other, 

'Mong stais that come out one by one, 
The yoicng moon — like the Eoman mother 

Among her living jewels — shone 



ALCIPHRON. 



75 



" O that from yonder orbs," I thought, 

" Pure and eternal as they are, 
There could to earth some power be brought. 
Some charm, with their own essence fraught, 

To make man deathless as a star, 
And open to his vast desires 

A course, as boundless and sublime 
As hes before those comet-fires. 

That roam and burn throughout all time !" 

While thoughts like these absorb'd my mind. 

That weariness which earthly bhss. 
However sweet, still leaves behind. 

As if to show how earthly 'tis. 
Came lulling o'er me, and I laid 

My limbs at that fair statue's base — 
That miracle, which Art hath made 

Of all the choice of Nature's grace — ' 
To which so oft I've knelt and sworn, 

That, could a living maid like her 
Unto this wondering world be born, 

I would, myself, turn worshipper. 

Sleep came then o'er me — and I seem'd 

To be transported far away 
To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd 

One single, melancholy ray, 
Throughout that darkness dimly shed 

From a small taper in the hand 
Of one, who, pale as are the dead, 

Before me took his spectral stand, 
And said, while awfiiily a smile 

Came o'er the wanness of his cheek — 
" Go, and beside the sacred Nile, 

You'll find th' Eternal Life you seek." 



Soon as he spoke these words, the hue 
Of death upon his features grew — 
Like the pale 'morning, when o'er night 
She gains the \ictory — full of hght ; 
While the small torch he held became 
A glory in his hand, whose flame 
Brighten'd the desert suddenly, 

E'en to the far horizon's line — • 
About whose level I could see 

Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, 
As if then freshly o'er thein play'd 
A vernal rainbow's rich cascade, 
While music was heard every where, 
Breathing, as 'twere itself the air, 
And spirits, on whose wings the hue 
Of heav'n still linger'd, round me flew. 
Till from all sides such splendors broke, 
That with the excess of light, I woke ! 

Such was my dream — and, I confess, 

Though none of all our creedless school 
Hath e'er believ'd, or reverenc'd less 

The fables of the priest-led fool, 
Who tells us of a soul, a mind. 
Separate and pure, within us shrin'd, 
Which is to live — ah, hope too bright !— 
For ever in yon fields of light — 
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes 



Of gods are on him — as if, blest 
And blooming in their own blue skies, 
Th' eternal gods were not too wise 

To let weak man disturb their rest ! 
Though thinking of such creeds as thou 

And all our Garden sages think, 
Yet is there something, I allow. 

In dreams like this — a sort of link 
With worlds unseen, which, from the hour 

I first could hsp my thoughts till now. 
Hath master'd me v/ith spell-like power. 

And who can tell, as we're combin'd 
Of various atoms — some refined. 
Like those that scintillate and play 
In the fixed stars, — some, gross as they 
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay, — 
Who can be sure, but 'tis the best 

And brightest atoms of our frame, 

Those most akin to stellar flame, 
That shine out thus, when we're at rest, — 
Ev'n as their kindred stars, whose light 
Comes out but in the silent night. 
Or is it that there lurks, indeed, 
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed, 
And that our guardians, from on high, 

Come, in that pause from toil and sin, 
To put the senses' curtain by, 

And on the wakeful soul look in ! 

Vain thought ! — but yet, howe'er it be. 

Dreams, more than once have prov'd to me 

Oracles, truer far than Oak, 

Or Dove, or Tripod ever spoke. 

And 'twas the words — thou' It hear and smile— 

The words that phantom seem'd to speak — 
" Go, and beside the sacred Nile 

You'll find the Eternal Life you seek," — 
That, haunting me by night, by day, 

At length, as with the unseen hand 
Of Fate itself, urg'd me away 

From Athens to this Holy Land ; 
Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught, 

The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun 
Nor eye hath reach'd — oh blessed thought ! — 

May sleep this everlasting one. 

Farewell — when to our Garden friends 
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends 
The gayest of their school thus far, 
Wandering beneath Canopus' star. 
Tell them that, wander v/here he will, 

Or, howsoe'er they now condemn 
His vague and vain pursuit, he still 

Is worthy of the School and them ; — 
Still, all their own, — nor e'er forgets, 

Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue 
Th' Eternal Light which never sets. 

The many meteor joys that do, 
But seeks them, hails them with delight 
Where'er they meet his longing sight. 
And, if his life must wane away. 
Like other lives, at least the day, 
The hour it lasts shall, Hke a fire 
With incense fed, in sweets expire. 



76 



THOMAS MOORE. 



LETTER II. 

FRO'M THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphis. 

'Tis true, alas — the mysteries and the lore 

I came to study on this wondrous shore, 

Are all forgotten in the new delights, 

The strange, wild joys that fill my days and 

nights. 
Instead of dark dull oracles that speak 
From subterranean temples, those 1 seek 
Come from the breathing shrines, where Beauty 

lives, 
And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. 
Instead of honouring Isis in those rites 
At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights 
Her first young crescent on the holy stream — 
When wandering youths and maidens watch her 

beam 
And number o'er the nights she hath to run, 
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. 
While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends 
A clue into past times, the student bends. 
And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread 
Back through the shadowy knowledge of the 

dead, — 
The only skill, alas, I yet can claim 
Lies in deciphering some new lov'd one's name — 
Some gentle missive, hinting time and place. 
In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace. 

And where — oh where's the heart that could 

withstand, 
Th" unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land. 
Where first young Pleasure's banner %vas un- 
furl' d. 
And Love hath temples ancient as the world ! 
Where mystery, like the veil by Beauty worn. 
Hides but to heighten, shades but to adorn ; 
And that luxurious melancholy, born 
Of passion and of genius, sheds a gloom 
Making joy holy ; — where the bower and tomb 
Stand side by side, and Pleasure learns from 

Death 
The instant value of each moment's breath. 
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream 
This lovely land now looks ! — the glorious stream, 
That late, between its banks, was seen to glide 
'Mong shrines and marble cities, on each side 
Glittering like jewels strung along a chain, 
Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain 
And valley, Uke a giant from his bed 
Rising with outstretch'd hmbs, hath grandly 

spread. 
While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heaven as ever bless' d our sphere, 
Gardens, and pillar' d streets, and porphyry domes, 
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes 
Of mighty Gods, and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower ! 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make 
One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, 
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives 
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. 
Here, up the steps of temples from the wave 
Ascending, in procession slow and grave, 



Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands 
And silver cymbals gleaming in iheir hands ; 
While there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny 

tracts 
Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts — 
Glide, with their precious lading to the sea. 
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory. 
Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains 
Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. 
Here, where the waters wind into a bay 
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way 
To Sais or Bubastus, among beds 
Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads. 
Push their hght barks, and there, as in a bower, 
Sing, talk, or sleep avvay the sultry hour — 
Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, 
That leaf, from which its waters drink so sweet. 
While haply, not far off, Leneath a bank 
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 
Is play'd in the cool current by a train 
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,* whose chain 
Around two conquerors of the world was cast, 
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last. 

For oh, beheve not them, who dare to brand 
As poor in charms, the women of this land. 
Though darken' d by that sun, whose spirit flows 
Through every vein, and tinges as it goes, 
' Tis but th' embrowning of the fruit that tells 
How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells, — 
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear. 
Announcing heav'n in half-caught glimpses there. 
And never yet did tell-tale looks set free 
The secret of young hearts more tenderly. 
Such eyes ! — long, shadowy, with that languid 

fall 
Of the fring'd Hds, which may be seen in all 
Who hve beneath the sun's too ardent rays — 
Lending such looks as, on their marriage days, 
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's 

gaze 1 
Then for their grace — mark but the nymph- like 

shapes 
Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes 
From green Anthylla, or light urps of flowers — 
Not our own Sculpture, in her happiest hours, 
E'er imag'd forth, even at the touch of him t 
Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb ! 
Then, canst thou wonder if, mid scenes hke 

these, 
I should forget all graver mysteries, 
All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best 
In heav'n or earth, the art of being blest! 

Yet are there times, — though brief, I own, their 

stay. 
Like summer-clouds that shine themselves, 

away, — 
Moments of gloom, when ev'n these pleasures 

pall 
Upon my sadd'ning heart, and I recall 
That Garden dream — that promise of a power, 
Oh were there such ! — to lengthen our hfe's hour 
On, on, as through a vista, far away 
Opening before us into endless day ! 
And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought 
Come on that evening — bright as ever brought 



* Cleopatra. 



t Apelles. 



j^LCIPHRON, 



77- 



Light's golden farewell to the world — when first 
The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst 
Awfully on my sight — standing sublime 
'Twixt earth and heav'n, the watch-towers of 

Time, 
From whose lone summit, when his reign hath 

past 
From earth for ever, he will look his last ! 
There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round 
Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound 
In the still air that circled them, which stole 
Like music of past times into my soul. 
I thought what myriads of the wise and brave 
And beautiful had sunk into the grave. 
Since earth first saw these wonders — and I said 
" Are things eternal only for the Dead ? 
Is there for Man no hope — but this, which dooms 
His only lasting trophies to be tombs ! 
But 'its not so — earth, heaven, all nature shows 
He may become immortal, — may unclose 
The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise 
Redeem'd from earth, a creature of the skies ! 

" And who can say, among the written spells 
From Hermes' hand, that, in these shrines and 

cells 
Have, from the Flood, lay hid, there may not be 
Some secret clue to immortality. 
Some amulet, whose spell can keep life's fire 
Awake within us, never to expire ! 
'Tis known that, on the Emerald Table,* hid 
For ages in j^on loftiest pyramid. 
The Thrice-Greatt did himself, engrave, of old. 
The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. 
And why may not this mightier secret dwell 
Within the same dark chambers ? who can tell 
But that those kings, who, by the written skill 
Of th' Emerald Table, call'd forth gold at will. 
And quarries upon quarries heap'd and hurl'd, 
To build them domes that might outstand the 

world — 
Who knows but that the heavenlier art, which 

shares 
The life of Gods with man, was also theirs — 
That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power 
Of fate and death, are living at this hour ; 
And these, the giant homes they still possess, 
Not tombs, but everlasting palaces, 
Within whose depths, hid from the world above. 
Even now they wander, with the fev/ they love, 
Through subterranean gardens, by a light 
Unknown on earth, which hath nor dawn nor 

night ! 
Else, why those deathless structures ? why the 

grand 
And hidden halls, that undermine this land ? 
Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go 
Through the dark windings of that realm below, 
Nor aught from heav'n itself, except the God 
Of Silence, through those endless labyrinths 

trod?" 

Thus did I dream — wild, Vi^andering dreams, I 

own. 
But such as haunt me ever, if alone, 



* See Notes on the Epicurean. 
tThe Hermes Trismegistus. 



Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I he. 
Like a ship hush'd between two waves a! sea, 
Then do these spirit whisperings, like the sound 
Of the Dark Future, come appalling round ; 
Nor can I break the trance that holds me then, 
Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again! 

Ev'n now for new adventure, new dehght. 
My heart is on the wing — this very night. 
The Temple on that island, half-way o'er 
From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore, 
Sends up its annual rite * to her, whose beams 
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams ; 
The n5rmph, who dips her urn in silent lakes. 
And turns to silvery dew each drop it lakes ; — 
Oh, not our Dian of the North, who chains 
In vestal ice the current of young veins. 
But she who haunts the gay Bubastiant grove, 
And owns she sees, from her bright heav'n above, 
Nothing on earth to match that heav'n but Love. 
Think then, what bliss will be abroad to-night ! 
Beside, that host of nymphs, who meet the sight 
Day after day, familiar as the sun. 
Coy buds of beauty, yet unbreath'd upon, 
And all the hidden loveliness, that hes. 
Shut up, as are the beams of sleeping eyes. 
Within these twilight shrines — to-night will be. 
Soon as the Moon's white bark in heav'n we see. 
Let loose, hke birds, for this festivity ! 

And mark, 'tis nigh ; already the stm bids 
His evening farewell to the Pyramids, 
As he hath done, age after age, till they 
Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray ; 
While their great shadows, stretching from the 

light, 
Look like the first colossal steps of Night, 
Stretching across the valley, to invade 
The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. 
Around, as signals of the setting beam. 
Gay, gilded flags on every house-top gleam ; 
While, hark! — from all the temples a rich swell 
Of music to the Moon — farewell — farev/ell. 



LETTER III. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphig. 
There is some star — or it may be 

That moon we saw so near last night — 
Which comes athwart my destiny 

For ever, with misleading light. 
If for a moment, pure and wise 

And calm I feel, there quick doth fall 
A spark from some disturbing eyes, 
That through my heart, soul, being flies, 

And makes a wildfire of it all. 
I've seen — oh, Cleon, that this earth 
Should e'er have giv'n such beauty birth! — 
That man — but, hold — hear all that pass'd 
Since yester-night, from first to last. 



* The great Festival of the Moon. 
fBubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian 
mythology. 



78 

The rising of the Moon, cahai, slow, 

And beautiful, as if she came 
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below. 

Was, with a loud and sweet acclaim 
Welcom'd from every breezy height. 
Where crowds stood wailing for her light. 
And well might they who view'd the scene 

Then lit up all around them, say 
That never yet had Nature been 

Caught sleeping in a lovlier ray, 
Or rivall'd her own noon-tide face, 
With purer show of moonlight grace. 

Memphis, — still grand, though not the same 

Unrivall'd Memphis, that could seize 
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame, 
- And wear it bright through centuries — 
Now, in the moonshine, that came down 

Like a last smile upon that crown, 
Mempliis, still grand, among her lakes, 

Her pyramids and shrines of fire, 
Rose, like a vision, that half breaks 
On one who, dreaming, still, awakes 

To music from some midnight choir : 
While to the west, where gradual sinks 

In the red sands, from Libya roll'd. 
Some mighty column, or, fair sphynx, 

That stood, in kingly courts, of old, 
It seem'd as, mid the pomps that shone 
Thus, gaily round him. Time look'd on, 
Waiting till all, now bright and blest, 
Should fall beneath him hke the rest, 

No sooner had the setting sun 
Proclaim'd the festal right begun. 
And, mid their idol's fullest beams, 

The Egyptian world was all afloat. 
Than I, who hve upon these streams, 

Like a young Nile-bird, turn'd my boat 
To the fair island, on whose shores, 
Through leafy palms and sycamores. 
Already shone the moving lights 
Of pilgrims, hastening to the rites. 
While, far around, hke ruby sparks 
Upon the water, hghted barks. 
Of every form and kind — from those 

That down Syene's cataract shoots, 
To the grand, guilded barge, that rows 

To sound of tainbours and of flutes. 
And wears at night, in words of flame. 
On the rich prow, its master's name; — 
All were alive, and made this sea 

Of cities busy as a hill 
Of summer ants, caught suddenly 

In the overflowing of a rill. 

Landed upon the isle, I soon 

Through marble alleys and small groves 

Of that mysterious palm she loves. 
Reach' d the fair Temple of the Moon ; 
And there — as slowly through the last 
Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'd — 
Betv/een the porphyry pillars, twin'd 

With palm and ivy, I could see 
A band of youthful maidens wind. 

In measur'd walk, half dancingly, 
Round a small shrine, on which was plac'd 



THOMAS MOORE, 



That bird, * whose plumes of black and white 
Wear in their hue, by Nature trac'd, 
A type of the moon's shadow'd Hght. 

In drapery, like woven snow 

These nymphs were clad, and each, below 

The rounded bosom, loosely wore 

A dark blue zone, or bandelet. 
With little silver stars all o'er. 

As are the skies at midnight, set. 
While in their tresses, braided through, 

Sparkled the flower of Egypt's lakes, 
The silvery lotus, in whose hue 

As much delight the young Moon takes, 
As doth the Day-God to behold 

The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. 
And, as they gracefully went round 

The worshipp'd bird, some to the beat 
Of castinets, some to the sound 

Of the shrill sistrum tim'd their feet ; 
While others, at each step they took, 
A tinkling chain of silver shook. 

They seem'd all fair — but there was one 
On whom the hght had not yet shone, 
Or shone but partly — so downcast 
She held her brow, as slow she pass'd. 
And yet to me, there seemed to dwell 

A charm upon that unseen face — 
A something, in the shade that fell 

Over that brow's imagin'd grace, 
Which took me more than all the best 
Outshining beauties of the rest. 
And her alone my eyes could see, 
Enchain'd by this sweet mystery; 
And her alone I watch' d, as round 
She glided o'er that marble ground. 
Stirring not more th' unconscious air 
Than if a Spirit had moved there. 
Till suddenly, wide open flew 
The Temple's folding gates, and threw 
A splendour frorn within, a flood 
Of Glory where these maidens stood. 
While, with that light, — as if the same 
Rich source gave birth to both, there came 
A swell of harmony, as grand 
As e'er was born of voice and hand, 
Filling the gorgeous aisles around 
With the mix'd burst of light and sound. 

Then was it, by the flash that blaz'd 

Full o'er her features — oh 'twas then, 
As startingly her eyes she rais'd, 

But quick let fall their lids again, 
I saw — not Psyche's self, when first 

Upon the threshold of the skies 
She paus'd, while heaven's glory burst 

Newly upon her downcast eyes. 
Could look more beautiful or blush 

With holier shame than did this maid, 
Whom now I saw, in all that gush 

Of splendour from the aisles, display'd. 
Never — tho' well thou know'st how much 

I've felt the sway of Beauty's star — ■ 
Never did her bright influence touch 

My soul into its depths so far ; 



* The Ibis. 



ALCIPHRON. 



79 



And had that vision linger' d there 

One minute more, I should have flown, 

Forgetful who I was and where, 

And, at her feet in worship thrown, 
Proffer'd my soul through life her own. 

Bat, scarcely had that burst of light 
And music broke on ear and sight, 
Than up the aisle the bird took yrmg, 

As if on heavenly mission sent, 
While after him, with graceful spring, 

Like some unearthly creatures, meant 

To live in that mix'd element 

Of light and song, the young maids went ; 
And she, who in my heart had thrown 
A spark to burn for hfe, was flown. 
In vain I tried to follow ; — bands 

Of reverend chanters fill'd the aisle : 
Where'er I sought to pass, their wands 

Motion' d me back, while many a file 
Of saered nymphs — but ah, not they 
Whom my eyes look'd for — throng' d the way. 
Perplex'd, impatient, mid this crowd 
Of faces, hghts — the o'erwhelming cloud 
Of incense round me, and my blood 
Full of its new-born fire, — I stood. 
Nor niov'd, nor breath'd, but when I caught 

A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone, 
Or wreath of lotus, which, I thought. 

Like those she wore at distance shone. 

But no, 'twas vain — hour after hour, 

Till my heart's throbbing turn'd to pain. 
And my strain'd eyesight lost its power, 

I sought her thus, but all in vain. 
At length, hot, — wilder'd, — in despair, 
I rush'dinto the cool night-air. 
And hurrying (though with many a look 
Back to the busy Temple) took 
My way along the moonlight shore. 
And sprung into my boat once more. 

There is a Lake, that to the north 
Of Memphis stretches grandly forth, 
Upon whose silent shore the Dead 

Have a proud city of their own,* 
With shrines and pyramids o'erspread, — 
Where many an ancient kingly head 

Slumbers, immortahz'd in stone ; 
And where, through marble grots beneath. 

The lifeless, rang'd like sacred things, 
Nor wanting aught of life but breath. 

Lie in their pamted coverings, 
And on each new successive race. 

That visit their dim haunts below. 
Look with the same unwitheringface. 

They wore three thousand years ago. 
There, Silence, thoughtful God, who loves 
The neighbourhood of death, in groves 
Of asphodel hes hid, and weaves 
His hushing spell among the leaves, — 
Nor ever noise disturbs the air, 

Save the low, humming, mournful sound 
Of priests, within their shrines, at prayer 

For the fresh Dead entomb'd around. 



♦ Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of 
Memphis. 



'Twas tow'rd this place of death — in mood 

Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark — 
I now across the shining flood 

Unconscious turned my light-wing'd bark. 
The form of that young maid, in all 

Its beauty, was before me still ; 
And oft I thought, if thus to call 

Her image to my mind at will, 
If but the memory of that one 
Bright look of hers, for ever gone, 
Was to my heart worth all the rest 
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest — 
What would it be, if wholly mine. 
Within these arms, as in a shrine, 
Hallow'dby Love, I saw her shine. 
An idol, worshipp'd by the light 
Of her own beauties, day and night — 
If 'twas a blessing but to see 
And lose again, what would this be ? 

In thoughts like these. — but often crost 
By darker threads — my mind was lost. 
Till, near that City of the Dead, 
Wak'd from my trance, I saw o'erhead — 
As if by some enchanter bid 

Suddenly fi-om the wave to rise — 
Pyramid over pyramid 

Tower in succession to the skies ; 
While one, aspiring, as if soon 

'T would touch the heavens, rose o'er all; 
And, on its summit, the white moon 

Rested, as on a pedestal ! 

The silence of the lonely tombs 

And temples round, where nought was heard 
But the high palm tree's tufted plumes, 

Shaken, at times, by breeze or bird, 
Form' da deep contrast to the scene 
Of revel, where I late had been; 
To those gay sounds, that still came o'er, 
Faintly, from many a distant shore. 
And th' unnumber'd lights, that shone 
Far o'er the flood, from Memphis on 
To the Moon's Isle and Babylon. 

My oars were lifted, and my boat 

Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream ; 
While my vague thoughts, alike afloat, 

Drifted through many an idle dream. 
With all of which, wild and unfix' d 
As was their aim, that vision mix'd. 
That bright nymph of the Temple — now 
With the same innocence of brow 
She wore within the lighted fane, — 
Now kindhng, through each pulse and vein 
With passion of such deep-felt fire 
As Gods might glory to inspire ; — 
And now — oh Darkness of the tomb, 

That must eclipse ev'n light hke hers! 
Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom 

Of those eternal sepulchres. 

Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away 
From that dark death-place, at the thought, 

When by the sound of dashing spray 
From a light oar my ear was caught, 

While past me, through the moonlight, sail'd 
A little gilded bark, that bore 



80 



THOMAS MOORE, 



Two female figures, closely veil'd 

And mantled, towards that funeral shore. 
They landed — and the boat again 
Put off across the watery plain. 

Shall I confess — to thee I may 

That never yet hath come the chance 
Of a new music, a new ray 

From woman's voice, from woman's glance, 
Which — let it find me how it might, 

In joy or grief — I did not bless, 
And wander after, as a light 

Leading to undreamt happiness. 
And chiefly now, when hopes so vain, 
Were stirring in my heart and brain, 
When Fancy had allur'd my soul 

Into a chase, as vague and far 
As would be his, who fix'd his goal 

In the horizon, or some star — 
Any bewilderment, that brought 
More near to earth my high-flown thought — 
The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure. 
Less high and heavenly, but more sure. 
Came welcome — and was then to me 
What the first flowery isle must be 
To vagrant birds, blown out to sea. 

Quick to the shore I urged my bark, 

And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed 
Between the lofty tombs, could mark 

Those figures, as with hasty tread 
They glided on — till in the shade 

Of a small pyramid, which through 
Some boughs of palm its peak display'd. 

They vanish'd instant from my view. 
I hurried to the spot — no trace 
Of life was in that lonely place ; 
And, had the creed I hold by taught 
Of other worlds, I might have thought 
Some mocking spirits had from thence 
Come in this guise to cheat my sense. 

At length, exploring darkly round 
The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found 
An iron portal, — opening high 

'Twixt peak and base — and, with a pray'r 
To the bliss-loving moon, whose eye 

Alone beheld me, sprung in there. 
Downward the narrow stairway led 
Through many a duct obscure and dread, 

A labyrinth for mystery made. 
With wanderings onward, backward, round, 
And gathering still, where'er it wound. 

But deeper density of shade. 

Scarce had I ask'd myself " Can aught 

That man delights in sojourn here ?" — 
When, suddenly, far off, I caught 

A glimpse of fight, remote, but clear, — 
Whose welcome glimmer seem'd to pour 

From some alcove or cell, that ended 
The long, steep, marble corridor. 

Through which I now, all hope, descended. 

Never did Spartan to his bride 
With warier foot at midnight glide. 
It seem'd as echo's self were dead 
In this dark place, so mute my tread. 



Reaching, at length, that light, I saw — 

Oh listen to the scene, now raised 
Before my eyes, then guess the awe, 

The still, rapt awe with which I gazed. 
'Twas a small chapel, lin'd around 
With the fair, spangling marble, found 
In many a ruin'd shrine that stands 
Half seen above the Libyan sands. 
The walls were richly sculptur'd o'er, 
And character' d with that dark lore 
Of times before the Flood, whose key 
Was lost in the ' Universal Sea,' — ■ 
While on the roof was pictured bright 
The Theban beetle, as he shines, 
When the Nile's mighty flow declines. 
And forth the creature springs to fight, 
With life regenerate in his wings : 
Emblem of vain imaginings ! 
Of a new world, when this is gone, 
In which the spirit still fives on ! 

Direct beneath this type, reclin'd 

On a black granite altar, lay 
A female form, in crystal shrin'd. 

And looking fresh as if the ray 

Of soul had fled but yesterday, 
While in relief, of silvery hue, 

Graved on the altar's front were seen 
A branch of lotus, brok'n in two, 

As that fair creature's life had been, 
And a small bird that from its spray 
Was winging, like her soul, away. 

But brief the glimpse I now could spare 

To the wild, mystic wonders round ; 
For there was yet one wonder there, 

That held me as by witchery bound. 
The lamp, that through the chamber shed 
Its vivid beam, was at the head 
Of her who on that altar slept ; 

And near it stood, when first I came, — 
Bending her brow, as if she kept 

Sad watch upon its silent flame — 
A female form, as yet so plac'd 

Between the lamp's strong glow and me, 
That I but saw, in outline trac'd, 

The shadow of her symmetry. 
Yet did my heart — I scarce knew why — 
Ev'n at that shadow'd shape beat high. 
Nor long was it, ere full in sight 
The figure turn'd ; and, by the light 
That touch'd her features, as she bent, 
Over the crystal monument, 
I saw 'twas she — the same — the same — 

That lately stood before me — bright'ning 
The holy spot, where she but came 
And went again, like summer fightning ! 

Upon the crystal, o'er the breast 
Of her who took that silent rest. 
There was a cross of silver lying — 

Another type of that blest home, 
Which hope, and pride, and fear of dying 

Build for us in a world to come : — 
This silver cross the maiden rais'd 
To her pure lips ; — then, having gazed 
Some minutes on that tranquil face. 
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace, 



ALCIPHRON. 



81 



Upward she turn'd her brow serene, 

As if, intent on heaven, those eyes 
Saw then nor roof nor cloud between 

Their own pare orbits and the skies; 
And, though her hps no motion made, 

x\nd that fix'd look was all her speech, 
I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd 

Deeper within than words could reach. 

Strange pow'r of Innocence, to turn 

To its own hue whate'er comes near ; 
And make even vagrant Passion burn 

With purer warmth within its sphere ! 
She who, but one short hour before, 
Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er 
My heart and brain, — whom gladly, even 

From that bright Temple, in the face 
Of those proud ministers of heaven, 

I would have borne, in wild embrace. 
And risk'd all punishment, divine 
And human, but to make her mine ; — 
That maid was now before me, thrown 

By fate itself into my arms — 
There standing, beautiful, alone, 

With nought to guard her, but her charms. 
Yet did I — oh did ev'n a breath 

From my parch'd lips, too parch'd to move. 
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath 
Earth's silent covering. Youth and Death 

Held converse through undying love ? 
No — smile and taunt me as thou wilt — 

Though but to gaze thus was delight, 
Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt. 

To win by stealth so pure a sight ; 
And rather than a look profane 

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, 
Or voice, or whisper broke the chain 

That link'd her spirit with the skies, 
I would have gladly, in that place. 
From which I watch'd her heav'n-ward face, 
Let my heart break, without one beat 
That could disturb a prayer so sweet. 

Gently, as if on every tread, 
My life, my more than life depended, 

Back through the corridor that led 
To this blest scene T now ascended, 

And with slow seeking, and some pain, 

And many a winding tried in vain, 

Emerg'd to upper air again. 

The sun had freshly ris'n, and down 

The marble hills of Araby, 
Scatter'd, as from a conqueror's crown, 

His beams into that living sea. 
There seem'd a glory in his hght, 

Newly put on — as if for pride 
Of the high homage paid this night 

To his own Isis, his young bride, 
Now fading feminine away 
In her proud lord's suoerior ray. 

My mind's first impulse was to fly 
At once from this entangling net — 

New scenes to range, new loves to try, 

Or, in mirth, wine and luxury 
Of every sense, that night forget. 

But vain the effort — spell-bound still, 

II \ 



I linger'd, without power or will 
To turn my eyes from that dark door. 

Which now enclos'd her 'mong the dead; 
Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er 
The sunny pile their flickering shed, 

'Twas her light form again I saw 
Starting to earth — still pure and bright. 

But wakening, as I hop'd, less awe. 
Thus seen by morning's natural hght, 
Than in that strange, dim cell at night. 

But no, alas, — she ne'er return'd : 

Nor yet — tho' still I watch — nor yet, 
Though the red sun for hours hath burn'd, 

And now, in his mid course, had met 
The peak of that eternal pile 

He pauses still at noon to bless. 
Standing beneath his downward smile, 

Like a great Spirit, shadowless ! 
Nor yet she comes- — while here, alone, 

Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, 
Where no heart beats except my own, 
Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thro^vn, 

By turns I watch, and rest, and trace 
These lines, that are to waft to thee 
My last night's wondrous history. 

Dost thou remember, in that Isle 

Of our own Sea, where thou and I 
Linger'd so long, so happy a while. 

Till all the summer flowers went by — 
Howigay it was when sunset brought 

To the cool Well our favourite maids — 
Some we had won, and some we sought — 

To dance within the fragrant shades, 
And, till the stars went down, attune 
Theu- Fountain Hymns* to the young moon? 

That time, too — oh, 'tis like a dream — 

When from Scamander's holy tide 
I sprung, as Genius of the Stream, 

And bore away that blooming bride, 
Who thither came, to yield her charms 

(As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed) 
Into the cold Scamander's arms, 

But met, and welcom'd mine, instead — 
Wondering, as on my neck she fell. 
How river-gods could love so well ! 
Who would have thought that he, who rov'd 

Like the first bees of summer then, 
Rifling each sweet, nor ever lov'd 

But the free hearts, that lov'd again, 
Readily as the reed repHes 
To the last breath that round it sighs- 
Is the same dreamer who, last night. 
Stood aw'd and breathless at the sight 
Of one Egyptian girl ; and now 
Wanders among these tombs, with brow 
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just. 
Himself, had ris'n from out their dust ! 

Yet, so it is— and the same thirst 
For something high and pure, above 

This withering world, which, from the first 
Make me drink deep of woman's love, 

* These Songs of the Well, as they were called by th« 
ancients, are still common in the Greek isles. 



82 



THOMAS MOORE. 



As the one joy, to heav'n most near 
Of all our hearts can meet with here, — 
Still bnrns me up, still keeps awake 
A fever nought but death can slake. 

Farewell ; whatever may befall, — 
Or bright, or dark — thou'lt know it all. 



LETTER IV. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Woi'fDERS on wonders; sights that lie 

Where never sun gave flow'ret birth; 
Bright marvels, hid from th' upper sky, 
And mysl'ries that are born and die 

Deep in the very heart of earth ! — 
All that the ancient Orpheus, led 

By courage that Love only gives, 
Dar'd for a matchless idol, dead, 

I've seen and dar'd for one who lives. 

Again the moon was up, and found 
The echoes of my feet still round 
The monuments of this lone place ; — 

Or saw me, if awhile my lid 
Yielded to sleep, stretch'd at the base 

Of that now precious Pyramid, 
In slumber that the gentlest stir, 
The stillest, air-like step of her. 
Whom ev'n in sleep I watch'd, could chase. 
And then, such various forms she seem'd 
To wear before me, as I dream'd ! — 

Now, like Nei'tha, on her throne 

At Sais, all reveal'd she shone. 

With that dread veil thrown off her brow, 

Which mortal never rais'd till now ;* 

Then, quickly chang'd, methought 'twas she 

Of whom the Memphian boatman tells 
Such wondrous tales — fair Rhodope, 

The subterranean nymph, that dwells 
'Mid sunless gems and glories hid. 
The Lady of the Pyramid ! 

At length, from one of these short dreams 
Starting — as if the subtile beams. 
Then playing o'er my brow, had brought 
Some sudden hght into my thought — 
Down for my boat-lamp to the shore. 

Where still it palely burn'd, I went ; 
Resolv'd that night to try once more 

The mystery of this monument. 

Thus arm'd, I scarce had reach'd the gate. 

When a loud screaming — like the cry 
Of some wild creature to its mate — 

Came startling from the palm-grove nigh ; — 
Or, whether haply 'twas the creak 

Of those Lethajan portals, t said 
To give thus out a mournful shriek. 

When oped at midnight for the dead. 



* See, for the veil of Neitha,the inscription upon her 
temple, as given by Plutarch de Is. et Osir. 

+ The brazen portals at Memphis, mentioned by 
Zoega, railed the Gates of Oblivion. 



Whate'er it was, the sound came o'er 

My heart hke ice, as through the door 
Of the small Pyramid I went, 
And down the same abrupt descent. 
And through long windings, as before, 
Reach'd the steep marble corridor. 

Trembling I stole along — the hght 

In the lone chapel still burn'd on ; 
But she, for whom my soul and sight 

Look'd with a thirst so keen, was gone, — 
By some invisible path had fled 
Into that gloom, and left the Dead 
To its own solitary rest. 
Of all lone things the loneliest. 

As still the cross, which she had kiss'd, 

Was lying on the crystal shrine, 
I took it up, nor could resist 

(Though the dead eyes, I thought, met mine) 
Kissing it too, while, half ashamed 
Of that mute presence, I exclaimed, 
" Oh Life to Come, if in thy sphere 

Love, Woman's love, our heav'n could boi, 
Who would not ev'n forego it here. 

To taste it there eternally ?" 
Hopeless, yet with unwilling pace. 
Leaving the spot, I turn'd to trace 
My pathway back, when, to the right, 
I could perceive by my lamp's light. 
That the long corridor which, viewed 

Through distance dim, had seem'd to end 
Abruptly here, still on pursued 

Its sinuous course, with snake-like bend 
Mocking the eye, as down it wound 
Still deeper through that dark profound. 

Again, my hopes were rais'd, and, fast 

As the dim lamp-light would allow, 
Along that new-found path I past. 

Through countless turns ; descending now 
By narrow ducts, now, up again, 
'Mid columns, in whose date the chain 
Of time is lost : and thence along 
Cold halls, in which a sapless throng 
Of Dead stood up, with glassy eye 
Meeting my gaze, as I went by. — 
Till, lost among these winding ways, 

Coil'd round and round, like serpent's folds 
I thought myself in that dim maze 

Down under Mceris' Lake, which holds 
The hidden wealth of the Twelve Kings, 
Safe from all human visitings. 
At length, the path clos'd suddenly ; 

And, by my lamp, whose glimmering fell 
Now faint and fainter, I could see 

Nought but the mouth of a huge well. 
Gaping athwart my onward track, — 
A reservoir of darkness, black 
As witches' caldrons are, when fill'd 
With moon-drugs in th' eclipse distill'd. 
Leaning to look if foot might pass 
Down through that chasm, I saw, beneath. 

As far as vision could explore. 
The jetty sides all smooth as glass. 

Looking as if just varnish'd o'er 
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death 
Throws out upon its slimy shore. 



ALCIPHRON. 



83 



Doubting awhile ; yet loth to leave 

Aught unexplor'd, the chasm I tried 
With nearer search ; and could perceive 

An iron step that from the side 
Stood dimly out ; while, lower still, 
Another ranged, less visible, 
But aptly plac'd, as if to aid 
Th' adventurous foot, that dar'd the shade. 
Though hardly I could deem that e'er 
Weak woman's foot had ventured there, 
Yet, urged along by the wild heat 
Tliat can do all things but retreat, 
I placed my lamp, — which for such task 
Was aptly shaped, like cap or casque 
To fit the brow, — firm on my head, 

And down into the darkness went; 
Still finding for my cautious tread 

New foot-hold in that deep descent, 
Which seem'd as tho' 'twould thus descend 
In depth and darkness without end. 
At length, this step-way ceas'd ; in vain 
I sought some hold, that would sustain 
My down-stretch' d foot — the polish'd side, 
Slippery and hard, all help denied : 
Till, as I bow'd my lamp around, 

To let its now faint glimmer fall 
On every side, with joy I found 

Just near me, in the shining wall, 
A window (which had 'scap'd my view 
In that half shadow) and sprung through. 
'Twas downward still, but far less rude — 

By stairs that through the live rock wound 

In narrow spiral round and round. 
Whose giddy sweep my foot pursued 
Till, lo, before a gate I stood, 
Which oped, I saw, into the same 
Deep well, from whence but now I came. 
The doors were iron, yet gave way 
Lightly before me, as the spray 
Of a young lime-tree, that receives 
Some wandering bird among its leaves. 
But, soon as I had pass'd, the din, 

Th' o'erwhelming din, with which again 
They clash'd their folds, and closed me in. 

Was such as seldom sky or main, 
Or heaving earth, or all, when met 

In angriest strife, e'er equall'd yet. 
It seem'd as if the ponderous sound 

Was by a thousand echoes hurl'd 
From one to th' other, through the round 

Of this great subterranean world, 
Till, far as from the catecombs 
Of Alexandria to the Tombs 
In ancient Thebes' s Valley of Kings, 
Rung its tremendous thunderings. 
Yet could not ev'n this rude surprise, 

Which well might move far bolder men. 
One instant turn my charmed eyes 

From the blest scene that hail'd them then. 
As I had rightly deem'd, the place 
Where I now stood was the well's base, 
The bottom of the chasm , and bright 

Before me, through the massy bars 
Of a huge gate, there came a light 

Soft, warm, and welcome, as the stars 
Of his own South are to the sight 
Of one, who, from his sunny home, 
To the chill North had dar'd to roam. 



And oh the scene, now opening through 

Those bars that all but sight denied! — 
A long, fair alley, far as view 

Could reach away, along whose side 
Went, lessening to the end, a row 

Of rich arcades, that, from between 
Their glistening pillars, sent a glow 

Of countless lamps, burning unseen, 
And that still air, as from a spring 
Of hidden light illumining. 
While — soon as the wild echoes rous'd 
From their deep haunts again were hous'd,— > 
I heard a strain of holy song 

Breathing from out the bright arcades 
Into that silence — where, among 

The high sweet voices of young maids, 
Which, hke the small and heav'n-ward spire 

Of Christian temples, crown'd the choir, 
I fancied, (such the fancy's sway) 

Though never yet my ear had caught 
Sound from her lips — yet, in that lay 

So worthy of her looks, methought 
That maiden's voice I heard, o'er all 

Most high and heavenly, — to my ear 
Sounding distinctly, hke the call 

Of a far spirit from its sphere. 

But vain the call — that stubborn gate 

Like destiny, all force defied. 
Anxious I look'd around — and, straight, 

An opening to the left descried, 
Which, though like hell's own mouth it seem'd.. 
Yet led, as by its course I deem'd 
Parallel with those lighted ways 
That 'cross the alley pour'd their blaze. 
Eager I stoop'd this path to tread, 
When, suddenly, the wall o'er-head 
Grew with a fitful lustre bright. 
Which, settling gradual on the sight 
Into clear characters of light, 
These words on its dark ground I read.— 

" You, who would try 

This terrible track, 
To five, or to die. 

But ne'er to look back; 

"You, who aspire 

To be purified there 
By the terrors of Fire 

And Water and Air ; 

' ' If danger and pain 

And death you despise — 

On — for again 
Into light you may rise,— 

' ' Rise into fight 

With that Secret Divine 
Now shrouded from sight 

By the Veils of the Shrine ! 

"But if " 



The words here dimm'd away 
Till, lost in darkness, vague and dread, 
Their very silence seem'd to say 
Awfuller things than words e'er said. 



84 



THOMAS MOORE. 



"Am I then in the path," I cried, 

" To the Great Mystery ? shall I see, 
And touch, — perhaps, ev'n draw aside 
Those venerable veils, which hide 

The secret of Eternity 1" 
This thought at once reviv'd the zeal, 

The thirst for Egypt's hidden lore 
Which I had almost ocas' d to feel, 

In the new dreams that won me o'er. 
For now — oh happiness ! — it seem'd 
As a both hopes before me beam'd — 
As if that spirit-nymph, whose tread 

I trac'd down hither from above, 
To more than one sweet treasure led — 
Lighting me to the fountain-head 

Of Knowledge by the star of Love. 
Instant I enter' d — 'though the ray 

Of my spent lamp was near its last, — 
And quick through many ^ channel- way, 

Ev'n ruder than the former, pass'd ; 
Till, just as sunk the farewell spark, 
I spied before me, through the dark, 
A paly fire, that moment raised, 
Which still as I approach 'd it, blazed 
With stronger light, — till, as I came 
More near, I saw my pathway led 
Between two hedges of live flame, — 

Trees all on fire, whose branches shed 
A glow that, without noise or smoke, 

Yet strong as from a furnace, broke ; 
While o'er the glaring ground between, 
Where my sole, onward path was seen. 
Hot iron bars, red as with ire, 

Transversely lay — such as, they tell, 
Compose that trellis-work of fire, 

Through which the Doom'd look out in hell. 

To linger there was to be lost — 

More and still more the burning trees 
Clos'd o'er the path ; and as I crost — 

With tremour both in heart and knees — 
Fixing my foot where'er a space 
'Twixt the red bars gave resting-place, 
Above me, each quick burning tree. 
Tamarind, Balmof Araby, 
And Egypt's Thorn combined to spread 
A roof of fire above my head. 
Yet safe — or with but harmless scorch — 

I trod the flaming ordeal through ; 
And promptly seizing, as a torch 

To light nie on to dangers new, 
A fallen bough that kindling lay 
Across the path, pursued my way. 

Nor went I far before the sound 

Of downward torrents struck my ear ; 
And, by my torch's gleam, I found 
That the dark space which yawn'd around, 

Was a wide cavern, far and near 
Fill' d with dark waters, that went by 
Turbid and quick, as if from high 
They late had dash'd down furiously ; 
Or, awfuller, had yet that doom 
Before them, in the untried gloom. 
No pass appear' d on either side ; 

And tho' my torch too feebly shone 
To show what scowl'd beyond the tide, 

I saw but one way left me — on ! 



So, plunging in, with my right hand 

The current's rush I scarce withstood, 
While, in my left, the failing brand 

Shook its last glimmer o'er the flood. 
'Twas a long struggle — oft I thought. 
That, in that whirl of waters caught, 
I must have gone, too weak for strife, 

Down, headlong, at the cataract's will — 
Sad fate for one, with heart and life 

And all youth's sunshine round him still 
But, ere my torch was wholly spent, 

I saw, — outstretching from the shade 
Into those waters, as if meant 

To lend the drowning struggler aid — 

A slender, double balustrade. 
With snow-white steps between, ascenditig 

From the grim surface of the stream, 
Far up as eye could reach, and ending 

In darkness there, like a lost dream. 
That gUmpse — for 'twas no longer — gave 

New spirit to my strength ; and now, 
With both arms combating the wave, 

I rush'd on blindly, till my brow 
Struck on that railway's lowest stair; 
When, gathering courage from despair, 
I made one bold and fearful bound, 
And on the step firm footing found. 

But short that hope — for, as I flew 
Breathlessly up, the stairway grew 
Tremulous under me, while each 
Frail step, ere scarce my foot could reach 
The fi-ailer yet I next must trust, 
Crumbled behind me into dust ; 
Leaving me, as it crush' d beneath. 

Like shipwreck'd wretch who, in dismay, 
Sees but one plank 'twixt him and death, 

And shuddering feels that one give way ; 
And still I upward went — with nought 

Beneath me but that depth of shade, 
And the dark flood, from whence I caught 

Each sound the falling fragments made. 
Was it not fearful?— still more frail 

At every step crash'd the light stair, 
While, as I mounted, ev'n the rail 

That up into that murky air 
Was my sole guide, began to fail ! — 
When stretching forth an anxious hand. 
Just as, beneath my tottering stand. 
Steps, railway, all, together went, 

I touch' d a massy iron ring, 
That there— by what kind genius sent 
I know not — in the darkness hung ; 

And grasping it, as drovvners chng 
To the last hold, so firm I clung, 
And through the void suspended swung. 

Sudden, as if that mighty ring 

Were link'd with all the winds in heav'n, 
And, Uke the touching of a spring. 

My eager grasp had instant given 
Loose to all blasts that ever spread 
The shore or sea with wrecks and dead — 
Around me, gusts, gales, whirlwinds rang 
Tumultuous, and I seem'd to hang 
Amidst an elemental war. 

In which wing'd tempests — of all kinds 
And strengths that winter's stormy star 



ALCIPHRON. 



85 



Lights through the Temple of the Winds 
In our own Athens — battled round,' 
Deafening me with chaotic sound. 
Nor this the worst — for, holding still 

With hands unmov'd, though shrinking oft, 
I found myself, at the wild will 

Of countless whirlwinds, caught aloft. 
And round and round, with fearful swing. 
Swept, hke a stone-shot in a sling ! 
Till breathless, mazed, I had begun, — 

So ceaselessly I thus was whirl'd, — 
To think my Umbs were chain' d upon 

That wheel of the Infernal World, 
To turn which, day and night, are blowing 

Hot, withering winds that never slumber ; 
And whose sad rounds, still going, going. 

Eternity alone can number ! 
And yet, ev'n then — while worse than Fear 

Hath ever dreamt seem'd hovering near, 
Had voice but ask'd me, "is not this 

A price too dear for aught below ?" 
I should have said " for knowledge, yes — 

But for bright, glorious Woman — no." 

At last, that whirl, when all my strength 

Had nearly fled, came to an end ; 
And, through that viewless void, at length, 

I felt the still-grasp' d ring descend 
Rapidly with me, till my feet — 
Oh, ne'er was touch of land so sweet 
To the long sea-worn exile — found 
A resting-place on the firm ground. 
At the same instant o'er me broke 

A glimmer through that gloom so chill,— 
Like day-Mght, when beneath the yoke 

Of tyrant darkness struggling still — 
And by th' imperfect gleam it shed, 
I saw before me a rude bed, 
Where poppies, strew'd upon a heap 
Of wither' d lotus, wooed to sleep. 
Blessing that couch — as I would bless, 

Ay, ev'n the absent tiger's lair, 
For rest in such stark weariness, — 

I crawl' d to it and sunk down there. 

How long I slept, or by what means 

Was wafted thence, I cannot say ; 
But, when I woke — oh the bright scenes 

The glories that around me lay — 
If ever yet a vision shone 
On waking mortal, this was one ! 
But how describe it ? vain, as yet. 

While the first dazzle dims my eyes, 
All vain the attempt — I must forget 

The flush, the newness, the surprise, 
The vague bewilderment, that whelms, 

Ev'n now, my every sense and thought. 
Ere I can paint these sunless realms. 

And their hid glories as I ought. 
While thou, if ev'n but ha.lf I tell 
Wilt that but half believe — farewell ! 



LETTER V, 



FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OK MEMPHIS, TO 
DECIUS, THE PR.fflTORIAN PREFECT. 

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice : — the youthful Chief 
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief. 



And, gay and godless, makes the present hour 
Its only heaven, is now within our power. 
Smooth, impious school ! — not all the weapons 

aimed 
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, 
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, 
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers 

conceal' d. 
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet 
As any thou canst boast, — ev'n when the feet 
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian 

blood, 
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood. 
And bring him, tamed and prostrate, to implore 
The vilest gods ev'n Egypt's saints adore. 

What ! — do these sages think, to them alone 
The key of this world's happiness is known ? 
That none but they, who make such proud^ 

parade 
Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid. 
Or that Religion keeps no secret place, 
No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace ? 
Fools ! — did they know how keen the zest that's 

given 
To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven; 
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue 
Of Pleasure'slaughing features, half seen through. 
And how the Priest, set aptly within reach 
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each. 
Would they not, Decius, — thou, whom th' an- 
cient tie 
'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally, — 
Would they not change their creed, their craft, 

for ours ? 
Leave the gross daylight joys, that, in their 

bowers. 
Languish with too much sun, hke o'er-blown 

flowers. 
For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd 
That slily lurk within the Temple's shade ? 
And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's 

school, — 
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule. 
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving fide ; 
Where pleasure, cramp'dandchill'd by wisdom's 

pride, 
Counts her own pulse's regulated play, 
And in dull dreams dissolves her life away,— 
Be taught by iis, quit shadov/s for the true, 
Substantial joys we sager Priests pitrsue, — 
Who, far too wise to theorise on bliss. 
Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss. 
Preach olher worlds, but live for only this: 
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, 
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung 
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, 
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine. 

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that 

they 
Alone despise the craft of us who pray ; — 
Still less their creedless vanity deceive 
With the fond thought, that we who pray believe. 
Believe ! — Apis forbid — forbid it, all 
Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we 

fall,— 
Deities, framed in jest, as if to try 



86 



THOMAS MOORE, 



How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky ; 
How far the same low fancy that combines 
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, 
And turns that Heaven itself into a place 
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, 
Can bring Olympus ev'nto shame more deep, 
Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap, 
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood. 
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food, — 
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees 
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes divinities I 

Believe! — oh, Decius, thou, who hast no care 
Of things divine, beyond the soldier's share, 
Who takes on trust the faith forwhich he bleeds, 
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs, — 
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs 
Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs 
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart. 
Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part, — 
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade 
Through the foul juggling of this holy trade, — 
This mud profound of mystery, where the feet. 
At every step, sink deeper in deceit. 
Oh ! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, 
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, 
Did I not keep still proudly in my mind. 
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er man- 
kind,— 
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, 
To move this world, than Archimede e'er 

plann' , — 
I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel 
At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel 
Besotted round ; and, — like that kindred breed 
Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, 
At famed Arsinoe,* — make my keepers bless, 
With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness. 

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain 
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, 
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast 

sold. 
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold? 
It must not be : — think'st thou that Christian sect. 
Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect 
Their crests anew and swell into a tide, 
That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride — ■ 
Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, 

ev'n they 
Would triumph thus, had not the constant play 
Of Wit's resistless archery clear' d their way ? — 
That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, 
Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, 
Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs 
Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines. 
Threatening such change as to the awful freaks 
Of summer Hghtning, ere the tempest breaks. 
But, to my point, — a youth of this vain school. 
But one, whom Doubt itself hath fail'd to cool 
Down to that freezing point, where Priests despair 
Of any spark from th' altar catching there, — 
Hath, some nights since, — it was, methinks, the 

night 
That foUow'd the full moon's great annual rite, — 



* For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles 
were ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. 10, 



Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward 

stray 
To these earth-hidden temples, tracked his way, 
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine and me 
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to 

see, 
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary. 
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands 
At the Well's lowest depth, — which none but 

hands 
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, 
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move, — 
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh: — 
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's 

sky. 
Had been observed, curiously wandering round 
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground. 

Instant, th' Initiate's Trials were prepared, — 
The Fire, Air, Water ; all that Orpheus dared, 
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Sarnian* pass'd, 
With trembling hope to come to — v>}iat, at last? 
Go, ask the dupes of Myst'ry ; question him 
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim, 
Walks at Eleusis ; ask of those, who brave 
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave, 
With its seven starry gates ; ask all who keep 
Those terrible night-myst'ries where they weep 
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze, 
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities, — 
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men, . 
Drown'd, hang'd, empaled, to rise, as gods, 

again ; — 
Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below 
This sev'n-fold mystery — can they tell thee? No; 
Gravely they keep that only secret, well 
And fairly kept, — that they have none to tell ; 
And, duped themselves, console their humbled 

pride 
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside. 

And such th' advance in fraud since Orpheus' 

time — 
That earliest master of our craft sublime, — 
So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud. 
From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad, 
That, still t' uphold our Temple's ancient boast. 
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most ; 
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round 
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound; 
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind. 
With changeful skill ; and make the human mind 
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray, 
But by the Priest's permission, wins its way, — 
Where, through the gloom as wave our wizard 

rods, 
Monsters, at will, are conjured into Gods; 
While Reason, like a grave-faced mummy, stands 
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands. 

But chiefly in the skill with which we use 
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views, 
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds. 
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds. 
And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil 
Hath, for our use, scoop' d out of Egypt's soil 



* Pythagoras. 



INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC, 



87 



This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes, 
Gardens, and palaces, v,'!iere Pleasure reigns 
In a rich, sunless empire of her own, 
With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne ; 
A realm for mystery made, which undermines 
The Nile itself, and, 'neath the Twelve Great 

Shrines 
That keep Initiation's holy rite, 
Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light, 
A light that knows no change — its brooks that run 
Too deep for day, its gardens without sun. 
Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd, 

surprised ; 
And all that bard or prophet e'er devised 
For man's Elysium, priests have realized. 

Here, at this moment, — all his trials past. 
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last, — 
The young Initiate roves, — as yet left free 
To wander through this realm of mystery. 
Feeding on such illusions as prepare 
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear 
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will, 
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still ; — 
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown. 
By scenic skill, into that world unknown, 
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own ; 
And all those other witching, wildering arts, 
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, 
Ay, ev'n the wisest and the hardiest, quail 
To any goblin throned behind a veil. 

Yes, — such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, 
Mixt with his night-dreams, from his atmosphere ; 
Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, 
His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, 
Like Phrygian priests, in honour of the shrine, — 
If he become not absolutely mine, 
Body and soul, and, Uke the tame decoy 
Which wary hunters of wild doves employ, 
Draw converts also, lure his brother wits 
To the dark cage where his own spirit flits. 
And giv.e us, if not saints, good hypocrites, — 
If I effect not this, then be it said 
The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, 
Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased 
To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste. 



INTERCEPTED LETTERS; 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



E lapsae manibus cecidere tabelljB. — Ovid. 



PREFACE. 

The Bag, from which the following Letters are 
selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman, 
about two months since, and picked up by an 
emissary of the Society for the S — pp — ss — n of 
V — e, who, supposing it might materially assist 
the private researches of that institution, immedi- 
ately took it to his employers and was rewarded 
handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of 



secrets was worth a whole host of informers ; and, 
accordingly, hke the Cupids of the poet (if I may 
use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about 
the sweet-bag of a bee," * those venerable sup- 
pressors almost fought with each other for the 
honour and dehght of first ransacking the Post 
Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out, upon 
examination, that the discoveries of profligacy, 
which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in 
those upper regions of society, which their well- 
bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle 
with. In consequence, they gained but very few 
victims by their prize, and, after lying for a week 
or two under Mr. H — tch — d's counter, the Bag, 
with its violated contents, was sold for a trifle to 
a friend of mine. 

It happened that I had just then been seized 
with an ambition (having never tried the strength 
of my wing but in a newspaper) to publish some- 
thing or other in the shape of a book ; and it oc- 
curred to me that, the present being such a letter- 
writing era, a few of these twopenny post epistles, 
turned into easy verse, would be as light and po- 
pular a task as I could possibly select for a com- 
mencement. I did not think it prudent, however, 
to give too many Letters at first ; and, accordingly, 
have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient 
number of pages) to reprint some of those trifles 
which had ah-eady appeared in the public jour- 
nals. As, in the battles of ancient times, the 
shades of the departed were sometimes seer 
among the combatants, so I thought I might re- 
medy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up 
a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them. 

Such are the motives and accidents that led to 
the present publication ; and as this is the first time 
my muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of 
a newspaper, though I feel all a parent's dehght 
at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not with- 
out a parent's anxiety, lest an unlucky fall should 
be the consequence of the experiment ; and I need 
not point out the many living instances there are 
of Muses that have suflfered severely in their 
heads, from taking too early and rashly to their 
feet. Besides, a book is so very different a thing 
from a newspaper ! — in the former, your doggerel, 
without either company or shelter, must stand 
shivering in the middle of a bleak white page by 
itself; whereas, in the latter, it is comfortly backed 
by advertisements, and has sometimes even a 
Speech of Mr. St — ph — n's, or something equally 
warm, for a chaujfe-pie, — so that, in general, the 
very reverse of " laudatur et alget" is its destiny. 

Ambition, however, must run some risks, and 
I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of 
these few Letters should have the effect of send- 
ing me to the Post Bag for more. 



PREFACE TO THE FOURTEENTH 
EDITION. 

BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. 

In the absence of Mr. Brown, who is at present 

on a tour through , I feel myself called 

upon, as his friend, to notice certain misconcep- 



* Herrick. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



tions and misrepresentations, to which this httle 
volume of Trifles has given rise. 

In the first place it is not true that Mr. Brown 
has had any accomplices in the work. A note, 
indeed, which has hitherto accompanied his Pre- 
face, may very naturally have been the origin of 
such a supposition ; but that note, which was 
merely the coquetry of an author, I have, in the 
present edition, taken upon myself to remove, and 
Mr. Brown must therefore be considered (like the 
mother of that unique production, the Centaur, 
nova Kai ixovov*) as alone responsible for the 
whole contents of the volume. 

In the next place it has been said, that in con- 
sequence of this graceless little book, a certain 
distinguished Personage prevailed upon another 
distinguished Personage to withdraw from the 
author that notice and kindness, with which he 
had so long and so liberally honoured him. There 
is not one syllable of truth in this story. For the 
magnanimity of the former of these persons I 
would, indeed, in no case, answer too rashly ; but 
of the conduct of the latter towards my friend, I 
have a proud gratification in declaring, that it has 
never ceased to be such as he must remember 
with indelible gratitude ; — a gratitude the more 
cheerfully and warmly paid, from its not being a 
debt incurred solely on his own account, but for 
kindness shared with those nearest and dearest to 
him. 

To the charge of being an Irishman, poor Mr. 
Brown pleads guilty ; and I believe it must also 
be acknowledged that he comes of a Roman Ca- 
tholic family : an avowal which, I am aware, is 
decisive of his utter reprobation in the eyes of those 
exclusive patentees of Christianity, so worthy to 
have been the followers of a certain enlightened 
Bishop, DoNATUs,t who held, "that God is in 
Africa, and not elsewhere." But from all this it 
does not necessarily follow that Mr. Brown is a 
Papist; and, indeed, I have the strongest reasons 
for suspecting that they who say so are totally 
mistaken. Not that I presume to have ascertained 
his opinions upon such subjects ; all I know of his 
orthodoxy is, that he has a Protestant wife and 
two or three Uttle Protestant children, and that he 
has been seen at church every Sunday, for a whole 
year together, listening to the sermons of his traly 
reverend and amiable friend. Dr. , and be- 
having there as well and as orderly as most 
people. 

There are a few more mistakes and falsehoods 
about Mr. Brown, to which I had intended, with 
all becoming gravity, to advert ; but I begin to 
think the task is altogether as useless as it is tire- 
some. Calumnies and misrepresentations of this 
sort are, like the arguments and statements of 
Dr. Duigenan, not at all the less vivacious or less 
serviceable to their fabricators for having been re- 
futed and disproved a thousand times over : they 
are brought forward again, as good as new, 
whenever malice or stupidity is in want of them, 
and are as useful as the old broken lantern, in 
Fielding's Amelia, which the watchman always 



♦ Pindar, Pyth, 2. — My friend certainly cannot add 
ovt' ev avSpaai ■yEpa(T<l>ofiOv. 
•f Bishop of CascB Nigrae, in the fourth century. 



keeps ready by him, to produce, in proof of riot, 
against his victims. I shall therefore give up the 
fruitless toil of vindication, and would even draw 
my pen over what I have already written, had I 
not promised to furnish the Publisher with a Pre- 
face, and know not how else I could contrive to 
eke it out. 

I have added two or three more trifles to this 
edition, which I found in the Morning Chronicle, 
and knew to be from the pen of my friend.* The 
rest of the volume remains t in its original state. 

April 20, 1814. 



LETTER I. 



FROM THE PR NC SS CH E OF 

TO THE LADY B RB— A A SHL Y.lj: 

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid, 
When you hear the sad rumpus your ponies have 

made; 
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of 

date) 
No nags ever made such a stir in the State ! 

Lord Eld-n first heard — and as instantly pray'd he 
To God and his King — that a Popish young lady 
(For though you've bright eyes, and twelve thou- 
sand a year, 
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear) 
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom, 
Two priest-ridden ponies, just landed from Rome, 
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks, 
That the dome of St. Paul's was scarce safe from 
their kicks ! 

Off at once to papa, in a flurry, he flies — 

For papa always does what these statesmen 

advise. 
On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite 
As in no case whate'er to advise him too right — 
" Pretty doings are here, sir, (he angrily cries. 
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look 

wise,) 
'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God ! 
To ride over your most Royal Highness rough- 
shod — 
Excuse, sir, my tears, they're from loyalty's 

source — 
Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sack'd by a 

Horse, 
But for us to be ruin'd by Ponies, still worse !" 



* The Trifles here alluded to, and others, which have 
since appeared, will be found in this edition. — Publisher. 

fA new reading has been suggested in the original 
of the Ode of Horace, freely translated by Lord Eld — n. 
In the line " Sive per Syrteis iter sstuosas," it is pro- 
posed, by a very trifling alteration, to read " Surtees" 
instead of" Syrteis," which brings the Ode, it is said, 
more home to the noble Translator, and gives a pecu- 
liar force and aptness to the epithet " ffistuosas." I 
merely throw out this emendation for the learned, 
being unable myself to decide upon its merits. 

J This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, has 
lately made a present of some beautiful ponies to the 
Pr — nc — SS. 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



89 



Quick a council is call'd — the whole cabinet sits — 
The Archbishops declare, frighten'd out of their 

wits, 
That if vile Popish ponies should eat at my manger. 
From that awful moment the Church is in danger ! 
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls 
Will suit their proud stomachs but those of St. 

Paul's. 

The Doctor, and he, the devout man of Leather, 
V — ns — tt — t, now laying their saint-heads to- 
gether, 
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations 
Are clearly foretold in chap. vi. Revelations — 
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one 
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter 
upon! 

Lord H — rr — by, hoping that no one imputes 
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes. 
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies, 
That had these said creatures been Asses, not 

Ponies, 
The court would have started no sort of objection. 
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection. 

" If the Pr-nc-ss will keep them (says Lord 

C-stl-r-gh,) 
To make them quite harmless the only true way 
Is (as certain Chief- Justices do with their wives) 
To flog them within half an inch of their hves — 
If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about. 
This (he knew by experience) would soon draw 

it out." 
Or — if this be thought cruel — his Lordship proposes 
' ' The new Feio-snafHe to bind down their noses — 
A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains. 
Which appears to indulge, while it doubly re- 
strains ; 
Which, however high-mettled, their gamesome- 

ness checks 
(Adds his Lordship, humanely,) or else breaks 
their necks !" 

This proposal received pretty general applause 
From the statesmen around — and the neck-break- 
ing clause 
Had a vigour about it, which soon reconciled 
Even Eld — n himself to a measure so mild. 
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed tonem. con.. 
And my Lord C — stl— ^r — gh, having so often shone 
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on. 

I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day. 
But, at present, adieu ! — I must hurry away 
To go see my mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her 
For just half an hour by the Qu — n's best repeater. 

C E. 



LETTER II. 

FROM COLONEL m'M H N TO G — LD 

FR NC — S L — OKIE, ESQ. 

Dear Sir, I've just had time to look 
[nto your very learned book,* 



* See the Edinburgh Review, No. xl. 
12 



Wherein — as plain as man can speak, 
Whose EngUsh is half modern Greek — 
You prove that we can ne'er intrench 
Our happy isles against the French, 
Till Royalty in England's made 
A much more independent trade — 
In short, until the House of Guelph 
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf, 
And boldly sets up for itself! 

All, that can well be understood 
In this said book, is vastly good : 
And, as to what's incomprehensible, 
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible ; 

But, to your work's immortal credit, 

The P e, good sir, — the P — e has read it. 

(The only book, himself remarks. 
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's.) 
Last levee-morn he look'd it through 
During that awful hour or two 
Of grave tonsorial preparation. 
Which, to a fond admiring nation. 
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum, 
The best-wigg'd P e in Christendom ! 

He thinks, with you, the imagination 
Oi partnership in legislation 
Could only enter in the noddles 
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles. 
Whose heads on firms are running so, 
They even must have a King and Co. 
And hence, too, eloquently show forth 
On checks and balances, and so forth. 

But now, he trusts, we are coming near a 
Better and more royal era; 
When England's monarch need but say, 
"Whip me those scoundrels, C — stl — r — gh!" 
Or — "hang me up those Papists, Eld — n," 
And 'twill be done — ay, faith, and well done. 

With view to which, I've his command 

To beg, sir, from your travell'd hand 

(Round which the foreign graces swarm) 

A plan of radical reform ; 

Compiled and chosen, as best you can. 

In Turkey or at Ispahan, 

And quite upturning, branch and root. 

Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot ! 

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write 
Somewhat more brief than Major C — rtwr — ^ght; 

Else, though the P e be long in rigging, 

'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging; 
Two wigs to every paragraph — 
Before he well could get through half. 

You'll send it, also, speedily — 
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me. 
His Highness, heated by your work, 
Already thinks himself Grand Turk ! 
And you'd have laugh' d, had you seen how 
He scared the Ch — nc— 11 — r just now. 
When (on his Lordship's entering pufTd) he 
Slapp'd his back and call'd him " Mufti !" 
The tailors, too, have got commands 
To put directly into hands 



90 



THOMAS MOORE. 



All sorts of dulimans and pouches, 
With sashes, turbans, and pabouches 
While Y — rm — th's sketching out a plan 
Of new moustaches a V Oilomane,) 
And all things fitting and expedient 
To Turkify our gracious R — g— nt ! 

You therefore have no time to waste — 
So send your system. — 

Your's, in haste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Before I send this scrawl av/ay, 
I seize a moment, just to say 
There's some parts of the Turkish system 
So vulgar, 'twere as well you miss'd 'em. 
For instance in Seraglio matters— 
Your Turk, whom girhsh fondness flatters. 
Would fill his Harem (tasteless fool !) 
With tittering, red-cheek'd things from school- 
But here (as in that fairy land, 
Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;* 
Where lips till sixty shed no honey. 
And Grandams were worth any money) 
Our Sultan has much riper notions — 
So, let your list of sAe-promotions 
Include those only, plump and sage, 
Who've reached the regidation age; 
That is — as near as one can fix 
From Peerage dates — full fifty-si.x;. 

This rule's {or favorites — nothing more — 
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor, 
Though not decidedly without them. 
Need never care one curse about them ! 



LETTER III. 



FROM G. E. TO THE E- 



•t 



We miss'd you last night at the " hoary old sin- 
ner's," 
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good din- 
ners — 
His soups scientific — his fishes quite prime — 
His pates superb — and his cutlets sublime ! 
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a 

Stomachic orgasm in my Lord E gh, 

Who set-to, to be sure, with miraculous force, 
And exclaim'd, between mouthfuls, " a J/e-cook, 
of course'. — 



*The learned Colonel must allude here to a descrip- 
tion of the Mysteiioua Isle, in the History of Abdalla, 
Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of na- 
ture are said to have taken place. — "A score of old 
women and the same number of old men, played here 
and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others 
at tip-cat or at cockles."— And again, "There is no- 
thing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely 
wrinkles," etc. etc. — See Tales of the FMst, vol. iii., pp. 
607, 608. 

fThis letter, as the reader will perceive, was writ- 
ten the day after a dinner, given by the M of 

H— d- ♦ 



While you live — 'what's there under that cover? 
pray, look) — 

While you live — (I'll just taste it) — ne'er keep a 
She-cook. 

'Tis a sound Sahc law — (a small bit of that toast) — 

Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the 
roast ; 

For Cookery's a secret — (this turtle's uncom- 
mon) — 

Like Masonry, never found out by a woman !" 

The dinner, you know, was in. gay celebration 

Of my brilliant triumph and H — nt's condemna- 
tion; 

A compliment too to his Lordship the J — e 

For his speech to the J — y, — and zounds ! who 
would grudge 

Turtle-soup, though it came to five guineas a 
bowl. 

To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul ? 

We were all in high gig — Roman Punch and 
Tokay 

Travell'd round, till our heads travell'd just the 
same way, — 

And we cared not for Juries or Libels — no — 
dam' me ! nor 

Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner ! 

More good things were eaten than said — but Tom 

T — RRH — T 

In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit, 
And, bearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief 
Say — sated with turtle — " I'll now try the beef — 
Tommy whisper' d him (giving his Lordship a sly 

hit) 
" I fear 'twill be hung-heei, my Lord, if you try- 
it!" 

And C — MD — N was there, who, that morning, 
had gone 

To fit his new Marquis's coronet on ; 

And the dish set before him — oh dish well-de- 
vised ! — 

Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calPs 
head surprised !" 

The brains were near ; and once they'd been 

fine. 

But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine 

That, however we still might in courtesy call 

Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains 
at all. 

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one 
In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con." 
At which H — D — T with warm reminiscences 

gloated. 
And E — b'r — H chuckled to hear himself quoted. 



Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new, 
For we drank — and you'll owTi 'twas benevolent 

too — 
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons, 

or peers. 
Whom we've any time honour' d by kissing their 

dears ; 
This museum of wittols was comical rather ; 
Old H— D— T gave M y, and /gave . 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



91 



In short, not a soul till this morning would budge — ' 

We were all fun and frolic ! — and even the J e 

Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion. 
And through the whole night was not once in a 
passion I 

I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing. 
And M — c has a sly dose of jalap preparing 
For poor T — mmy T — ru — t at breakfast to 

quafi'— 
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh, 
And there's nothing so good as old T — mmy, kept 

close 
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose ! 



LETTER IV. 

FROM THE RIGHT HON. P TR CK D — G — N — N 

TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR J HN N — CH L. 

Dublin.* 

Last week, dear N — oh — l, making merry 
At dinner with our Secretary, 
When all were drunk, or pretty near 
(The time for doing business here,) 
Says he to me, " Sweet Bully Bottom ! 
These Papist dogs — hiccup — od rot 'em ! 
Deserve to be bespatter' d — hiccup — 
With all the dirt even you can pick up — 

But, as the P e — (here's to him — fill — 

Hip, hip, hurra!) — is trying still 
To humbug them with kind professions, 
And as you deal in strong expressions — 
' Bogue — ' traitor'' — hiccup — and all that — 
You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat! — 
You must indeed — hiccup — that's flat." 

Yes — "muzzled" was the word, Sir John — 

These fools have clapp'd a muzzle on 

The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er 

With slaver of the times of yore ! — t 

Was it for this that back I went 

As far as Lateran and Trent, 

To prove that they, who damn'd us then, 

Ought now, in turn, be damn'd again i — 

The silent victim still to sit 

Of Gr — TT — n's fire and C — hn — g's wit. 

To hear even noisy M — th — \v gabble on 

Nor mention once the W — e of Babylon ! 

Oh ! 'tis loo much — 'who now will be 

The Niglitman of No-Popery ? 

What Courtier, Saint, or even Bishop, 

Such learned filth will ever fish up ? 

If there among our ranks be one 

To take my place^ 'tis thou, Sir John — 

Thou — who hke me, art dubb'd Right Hon. 

Like me, too, art a Lawyer Civil 

That wishes Papists at the devil ! 



♦ This letter, which contained some very heavy in- 
cloBures, seems to have been sent to London by a pri- 
vate hand, and then put into the Twopenny Post-Ofiice, 
to save trouble. 

tin sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn 
that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right 
Hon. Doctor let loose again. 



I'o whom then but to thee, my friend. 

Should Patrick;* his Port-folio send? 

Take it — 'tis thine — his learn' d Port-folio 

With all its theologic olio 

Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman, — 

Of Doctrines nov/ believed by no man — 

Of Councils, held for men's salvation, 

Yet always ending in damnation — 

(Which shows that since the world's creation, 

Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming, 

Have always had a taste for damning ;) 

And many more such pious scraps, 

To prove (what we've long proved perhaps) 

That, mad as Christians used to be 

About the Thirteenth Century, 

There's lots of Christians to be had 

In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad ! 

Farewell — I send with this, dear N — ch — l ! 
A rod or two I've had in pickle 
Wherewith to trim old Gr — tt — n's jacket.— 
The rest shall go by Monday's packet. 

P. D. 

Among the Inclosures in the foregoing Letter was 
the following " Unanswerable Argument agaittst 
the Papist s.^' 

* * * * 

We're told the ancient Roman nation 

Made use of spittle in lustration. — t 

(Vide Lactantium ap. GallsEum — t 

I. e. you need not read but see 'em.) 

Now, Irish Papists (fact surprising !) 

Make use of spittle in baptizing. 

Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagams, 

Connors, and Tooles, all downright Pagans! 

This fact's enough — let no one tell us 

To free such sad, salivous fellows — 

No — no — the man baptized with spittle 

Halh no truth in him — not a tittle ! 



LETTER V. 

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C 
TO LADY . 

My dear Lady ! I've been just sending out 

About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout — 
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby ? — this moment 

got mine — 
The Mail-coach Edition^ — prodigiously fine !) 



*This is a bad name for poetry; but D— gen— n is 
worse. — As Prudentius says, upon a very different sub- 
ject— 

torquetur Apollo 
Nomine pe cussus. 

f lustralibus ante salivis 

Expiat. Pers. Sat. 2. 

XI have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's 
reference here, and find him, for once, correct. The 
following are the words of his indignant referee Gal- 
Iffius — "Asserere non veremur sacrum baptismum a 
Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expia- 
tione a Paganls non a Christianis manasse." 

5 Bee Mr. Murray's Advertisement about the Mail- 
coitcli copies of Rokeby, 



93 



THOMAS MOORE. 



But T can't conceive how, in this very cold wea- 
ther, 
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together ; 
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat, 
One can never get half of one's hundreds to 

meet — • 
(Apropos — you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend 

last night, 
Escort to their chair, with his staff so polite, 
The " three maiden miseries," all in a fright ! 
Poor Townsend, like Mekcury, filling two posts, 
Supervisor oi thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!) 



can't you hit on 



But, my dear Lady — 

some notion. 
At least for one night, to set London in motion ? 
As to having the R — g — nt — that show is gone 

by- 
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I) 
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more 

ways, 
Have taken much lately to whispering in door- 
ways ; 
Which — considering, you know, dear, the size of 

the two — 
Makes a block that one's company cannot get 

through ; 
And a house such as mine is, with door- ways so 

small, 
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at 

all!— 
(Apropos, though, of love-work — you've heard it, 

I hope. 
That Napoleon's old Mother's to marry the 

Pope, — 
What a comical pair '.) — But, to stick to my 

Rout, 
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck 

out. 
Is there no Al&erine, no Kamschatkaw ar- 
rived ? 
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wived? 
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name 
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame ? 

I remember the time, three or four winters back, 
When — provided their wigs were but decently 

black — ■ 
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a 

sight 
That would people one's house lor one, night after 

night. 
But — 'whether the Ministers paw'd them too 

much — 
(And you know how they spoil whatever they 

touch,) 
Or, whether Lord G — rge (the young man about 

town) 
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down — 
One has certainly lost one^ s peninsular rage. 
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age 
Has been at such places (think how the fit cools) 
As old Mrs. V n's or Lord L — v — rp — l's ! 

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintz- 

TSCHITSTOPSCHINZOtJDHOFF 

Are the only things now make an evening go 
smooth ofF— 



So, get me a Russian — till death I'm your 

debtor — 
If he brings the whole alphabet, so much the 

better 
And — Lord ! if he would but, in character, sup 
Off" his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set 

me up! 

Au revoir, my sweet girl — I must leave you in 

haste — 
Little GuNTER has brought me the Liqueurs to 

taste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

By the bye, have you found any friend that can 

construe. 
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?"' 
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin 
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in. 



LETTER VI. 



FROM ABDALLAH,| IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, 
IN ISPAHAN. 

Whilst thou, Mohassan (happy thou!) 

Dost daily bend thy loyal brow 

Before our King — our Asia's treasure ! 

Nutmeg of Comfort ! Rose of Pleasure ! — 

And bear'st as many kicks and bruises. 

As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses ; — 

Thy head still near the bowstring's borders, 

And but left on till further orders ! 

Through London streets, with turban fair, 

And caftan floating to the air 

I saunter on — the admiration 

Of this short-coated population — 

This sew'd-up race — this button'd nation— 

Who while they boast their laws so free. 

Leave not one hmb at liberty. 

But live, with all their lordly speeches. 

The slaves of buttons and tight breeches. 

Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter, 

(They're Christians, and they know no better) + 

In some things they're a thinking nation — 

And, on Religious Toleration, 

I own I like their notions quite, 

They are so Persian and so right ! 

You know our Sunnites,^ hateful dogs ! 

Whom every pious Shiite flogs 



* Alluding, I .suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of 
a Lusxis Nature in the Newspapers latelj'. 

f I have made many inquiries about this Persian gen- 
tleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. 
From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I con- 
clude that he is an importation of Ministers ; and he 

has arrived just in time to assist the P e and Mr. 

L — CK — E in their new Oriental Plan of Reform. — See 
the second of these Letters. — How Abdallah's epistle 
to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post Bag 
is more than I can pretend to account for. 

fC'est un honnete homme," said a Turkish gover- 
nor of de Ruyter; "c'est grand dommage qu'il soit 
Chretien." 

ifSunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into 
which the Mahometan world is divided ; and they have 
gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without 
any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The 



THE TWOPE^VNY POST BAG. 



93 



Or longs to flog* — 'tis true, they pray- 
To God, but in an ill-bred way ; 
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces 
Stuck in their right, canonic places !t 
'Tis true they worship Ali's name — t 
Their heaven and ours are just the same — 
(A Persian's heaven is easily made, 
'Tis but — black eyes and lemonade.) 
Yet — though we've tried for centuries back — 
We can't persuade the stubborn pack, 
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers, 
To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers !§ 
Then — only think — the libertines '. 
They wash their toes — they comb their chins, II 
With many more such deadly sins ! 
And (what's the worst, though last I rank it) 
Beheve the Chapter of the Blanket ! 

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious 
(Which must at bottom be seditious ; 
As no man living would refuse 
Green slippers, but from treasonous views ; 
Nor wash his toes, but with intent 
To overturn the government !) 
Such is our rnild and tolerant way, 
We only curse them twice a day 
(According to a form that's set,) 
And, far from torturing, only let 
All orthodox believers beat 'em, 
And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em. 

As to the rest, they're free to do 
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to. 
Provided they make nothing of it 
Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit ; 
Which things, we naturally expect, 
Belong to us, the Estabhsh'd sect, 
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked 1) 
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket. 
The same mild views of Toleration, 
Inspire, I find, this button' d nation. 
Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, 
And only Sunnites with a brogue) 
Fare just as well, with all their fuss, 
Aa rascal Sunnites do with us. 

Tlie tender Gazel I inclose 

Is for my love, my Syrian Rose — 



Sunrd is the established sect in Turkej', and the Shia 
in Persia ; and the difference between them turn chiefly 
upoft those important points, which our pious friend 
Abdallah, in tlic true spirit of Shiite Ascendancy, re- 
probates in this Letter. 

* '•'Hjes Sunnites, qui etaient comme ies catholiques 
de Musulmanisme." — D' Herbelot. 

t" In contradistinction to tlie Sounis, who in their 
prayers cross their hands on tlie lower part of the 
breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines ; 
an.-; as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, 
press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the 
Schiahs," etc. etc. — Foster's Voyage. 

f '-Les Turcs ne d^testent pas Ali r^ciproquement ; 
ail contraire ils le reconnaissent,"etc. etc.— Clmrdin. 

i "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sun- 
nites consider as a great abomination." — Mariti. 

II For these points of difference, as well as for the 
Chapter of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not 
naving the book by me) to Picart'? Account of the Ma- 
nometan Sects. 



Take it, when night begins to fall, 
And throw it o'er her mother's wall. 

GAZEL. 

Rememberest thou the hour we past ? 
That hour, the liappiest and the last ! — 
Oh ! not so sweet the Siha thorn 
To summer bees at break of morn, 
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell, 
To camels' ears the tinkling bell, 
As is the soothing memory 
Of that one precious hour to me '. 

How can we Uve, so far apart ? 
Oh ! why not rather heart to heart. 

United live and die ? — 
Like those sweet birds that fly together, 
With feather always touching feather, 

Link'd by a hook and eye !* 



LETTER VII. 

FROM MESSRS. L — CK GT N AND CO. 

TO , ESQ.f 

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS. — look'd it 

thro' — 
Very sorry — ^but can't undertake — 'twouldn't do. 
Clever work, Sir ! — would get up prodigiously 

well — 
Its only defect is — it never would sell ! 
And though Statesmen may glory in being un- 

bought, 
In an Author, we think, Sir, that's rather a fault. 

Hard times. Sir — most books are too dear to be 

read — 
Though the gold of Good-3en8& and Wit's svudl- 

change are fled, 
Yet the paper we publishers pass, in their stead, 
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) 
Not even such names as F — tzg-:— »'— d's c*n 

sink it ! 
However, Sir — if you're for trying again, 
And at somewhat that's vendible — we are your 

men. 
Since the ChevaUer C — rr took to marrying 

lately. 
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly — 
No job, Sir, more easy — your Country once 

plann'd, 
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land 
Puts your Quarto of Travels clean out of hand. 

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell — 
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well. 



* This will appear strange to an English reader, but it 
is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the 
curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which 
I find the following account in Richardson. — " A sort of 
bird that is said to have but one wing, on the opposite 
side to which the male has a hook and the female a 
ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened toge- 
ther." 

tFrom motives of delicacy, and, indeed, oi fMov- 
feeling, I suppress the name of the Author, whose re- 
jected manuscript was inclosed in this letter. 



94 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Or — supposing you have nothing original in you — 
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win 

you, 
You'll get to the Blue-stocking routs of Alb-n-a.* 
(Mind — not to her dinners — a second-hand Muse 
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.) 
Or — in case nothing else in this world you can 

do— 
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you cannot review! 

Should you feel any touch oi poetical glow. 
We've a scheme to suggest — Mr. Sc — tt, you 

must know 
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the 

Sow,)i 
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, 
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town ; 
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to 

pay) 
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way. 
Now the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys 

can beat him) 
To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet 

him; 
Who, by means of quick proofs — no revises — long 

coaches — 
May do a few Villas before Sc — tt approaches — 
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, 
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Wobtjrn- 

Abbey. 

Such, Sir, is our plan — ^if you're up to the freak, 
'Tis a match ! and we'll put you in training, next 

week — 
At present, no more — in reply to this Letter, a 
Lone will oblige very much 

Your's et cetera. 
Temple of the Muses. 



LETTER VIII. 



rSOM COLONEL TH — M — S TO 



ESQ. 



Come to our Fete,$ and bring with thee 
Thy newest, best embroidery ! ., 
Come to our Fete, and show again 
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men ! 
Which charm'd all eyes that last survey'd it. 

When B l's self inquired " who made it ?" 

When Cits came wondering from the East. 
And thought thee Poet Pye, at least! 

Oh! come — (if haply 'tis thy week 
For looking pale) — with paly cheek ; 
Though more we love thy roseate days 
When the rich rouge pot pours its blaze 
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread, 
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red — 
Like the last tints ot dying Day 
That o'er some darkling grove delay ! 



* This alludes, 1 believe, toa curious correspondence, 
which is said to have passed lately between Alb — n— a. 
Countess of B— cic— gh— ms— e, and a certain ingeni- 
ous Parodist. 

I Paternoster Row. 

JThis Letter inclosed a Card for the Grand Fete on 
the 5th of February. 



Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander ! 
(That lace, like H — rry Al — x — nd — k, 
Too precious to be wash'd) — thy rings, 
Thy seals — in short, thy prettiest things ! 
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on. 
And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none 
But the great R — g — t's self alone ! 
Who, by particular desire — 
Foi' that night only, means to hire 
A dress from Romeo C — tes. Esquire — 
Something between ('twere sin to hack it) 
The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket ! 
Hail, first of actors !* best of R — g — ts ! 
Born for each other's fond allegiance ! 
Both gay Lotharios — both good dressers — 
Of Serious Farce both learned Professors — 
Both circled round, for use or show. 
With cocks' -combs, wheresoe'er they go. 

Thou know' St the time, thou man of lore ' 
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor — 
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day ! 
It takes to dance that chalk away.t 
The Ball-room opens — far and nigh 
Comets and suns beneath us he ; 
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk, 
And the floor seems a sky of chalk ! 
But soon shall fade the bright deceit, 
When many a maid, with busy feet 
That sparkle in the Lustre's ray. 
O'er the white path shall bound and play 
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way ! 
At every step a star is fled. 
And suns grow dim beneath their tread ! 
So passeth life — (thus Sc — tt would write, 
And spinsters read him with delight) — 
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, 
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone !t 

But, hang this long digressive flight ! 
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night, 
What falsehood rankles in their hearts, 

Who say the P e neglects the arts — 

Neglects the arts ! — no, St g ! no ; 

Thy Cupids answer " 'tis not so," 
And every floor, that night, shall tell 
How quick thou daubest, and how well ! 
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion, 
Thou'rt 6es«— beneath a French cotillion ; 



* Quern tu, Melpomene, semel 
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, etc. Horat. 
The Man, upon whom thou has deign'd to look funny, 
Thou great Tragic Muse ! at the hour of his birth- 
Let them say what they will, that's the man for my 
money. 
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth ! 
The assertion that follows, however, is not verified in 
the instance before us. 

Ilium 



non equus impiger 

Curni ducet Acliaico. 
I To those who neither go to balls nor read the 
Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention that the 
floors of Ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety 
and for ornament, with various fanciful devices, 
t Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent. 
Hearts are not steel, but steel is bent. 
After all, however, Mr. Sc— tt may well say to the 
Colonel (and, indeed, to much better wags than the 
Colonel,) (laov ixuiiCicSai /) fiititia^ai. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



95 



And still comest off, whate'er thy faults, 
With, flying colours in a Waltz ; 
Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date 
To thy best works assign'd by Fate — 
While some chefs-d'oeuvre live to weary one, 
Thine boast a short life and a merry one ; 
Their hour of glory past and gone 
With " Molly put the kettle on !" 
But, bless my soul ! I've scarce a leaf 
Of paper left — so, must be brief 

This festive Fete, in fact, will be 

The former Fete'sfo£- simile ;* 

The same long Masquerade of Rooms, 

Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes, 

(These, P — rt — r, are thy glorious works !) 

You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks, 

Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice. 

Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace ; 

And each, to make the oglio pleasant. 

Had sent a State-Room as a present ; 

The same /awiewi'Zs and girondoles — 

The same gold Asses, t pretty souls ! 

That, in this rich and classic dome, 

Appear so perfectly at home ; 

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes. 

But not — ah ! not the same dear fishes — 

Late hours and claret killed the old ones ! 

So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones 

(It being rather hard to raise 

Fish of that specie now-a-days,) 

Some sprats have been, by Y — km — th's wish, 

Promoted into Silver Fish, 

And Gudgeons (so V — ns — tt — r told 

The R — G — t) are as good as Gold .' 

So, pr'ythee, come — our Fete will be 
But half a Fete, if wanting thee ! 



IRISH MELODIES 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 

AitL— Maid of the Valley. 

Go where glory waits thee, 
But, while fame elates thee. 

Oh ! still remember me. 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest. 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee. 
Dearer friends caress thee. 
All the joys that bless thee 

Sweeter far may be ; 
But when friends are nearest. 
And when joys are dearest, 

Oh ! then remember me. 



When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest. 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Think, when home returning 
Bright we've seen it burning — 

Oh ! thus remember me. 
Oft as summer closes, 
When thine eye reposes. 
On its hngering roses, 

Once so loved by thee — 
Think of her who wove them. 
Her who made thee love them— 

Oh ! then remember me. 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

Oh ! then remember me. 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh ! still remember me. 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling, 
To thy heart appealing. 

Draw one tear from thee ; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee 

Oh ! then remember me. 



♦ "C — rl — t — n H e will exhibit a complete fac- 

timile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did 
at the last Fete. The same splendid draperies," etc. 
«tc. — Morning Post. 

t The salt-cellars on the P E's own table were in 

Use form of an Ass wit)! panniers. 



OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

Am— The Brown Maid. 

Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the 

shade. 
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed. 
As the night-dew that fails on the grass o'er his 

head ! 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 

sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it 

rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

Air — Oramachree. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone, that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 



96 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives I 



FLY NOT YET. 

Air — Planxty Kelly. 

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night, 

And maids who love the moon I 
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh ! stay— Oh ! stay- 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain 

To break its links so soon. 

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd 

Li times of old through Ammon's shade,* 

Through icy cold by day it ran, 

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began 

To burn when night was near : 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night, reti-rning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh! stay— Oh! stay- 
When did morning ever break, 
And find such beammg eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here ! 



" Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, 

No son of Erin will offer me harm — 

For though they love women and golden store, 

Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more !' 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the green isle, 
And blest for ever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride ! 



RICH AND RARE'WeRE THE GEMS 
SHE WORE.f 

Air — The Summer is coming-. 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 
But oil ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 

So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?" 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* 

Air — Tkc Old Mead of Denis. 

There is not in the wide world a valley ao sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters 

meet; 
Oh ! the last ray of feehng and life must depart, t 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my 

heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 
'Twas not fhe soft magic of streamlet or hill — 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were 
near, 

Who made every dear scene of enchantment 
more dear, 

And who felt how the best charms of nature im- 
prove. 

When we see them reflected from looks that vt"e 
love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love 

best. 
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world 

should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in 

peace. 



* SoUs Pons, near the temple of Amnion. 

f Tbis ballad is founded upon the following anec- 
dote : " The people were inspired with such a spirit 
of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example 
of Brien, and by his excellent administiation, that, as 
a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of 
great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, 
undertook a journey alone from one end of the king- 
dom to the other, with a wand only in her h.?r,iA, at the 
top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and 
aiich an impression had the laws and government of 
ttiis Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that 
no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she 
robbed of her clothes or jewels." — Warner's History of 
treiand, vol. i. book 10. 



THE LEC4ACY. 

Air — Unknown. 

When in death I shall calm recline, 

O bear my heart to my mistress dear , 
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 

Of the brightest hise while it hnger'd here : 
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 

To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 

To bathe the relic from morn till night. 

When the light of my song is o'er, 
Then take my harp to' your ancient hall ; 



* "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that 
beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and 
Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines 
were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the 
summer of 1807. 

t The rivers of Avon and Avoca. 



IRISH MELODIES, 



97 



Hang It up at that friendly door, 

Where, weary travellers love to call.* 

Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 
Revive its soft note in passing along, 

Ott I let one thought of its master waken 
Your warmest smile for the child of song. 

Keep iliis cup, which is now o'erflowing, 

To grace your revel when I'm at rest ; 
Never, oh ! never its balm bestowing 

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! 
But when some warm devoted lover 

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 
Then, then my spirit around shall hover, 

And hallow each drop that foams for him. 



EVELEEN'S BOWER. 

Air — Unknowrt. 

Oh ! weep for the hour. 
When to Eveleen's bower 

The Lord of the valley with false vows came ; 
The moon hid her light 
From the heavena that night, 

And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's 
shame. 
The clouds pass'd soon 
From the chaste cold moon, 

And Heaven smiled again with her vestal flame ; 
But none will see the day. 
When the clouds shall pass away, 

Wbich that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. 

The white snow lay 

On the narrow path-way, 
Where the Lord of the valley crose'd over the 
rnoor ; 

And many a deep print 

On the white snow's tint 
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's 
door. 

The next sun's ray- 
Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false Lord 
came; 

But there's a light above 

Which alone can remove 
That stain upon the snow of fiiir Eveleen's fame. 



LIST ERIN REMEMBER THK DAYS 
OF OLD., 

Al-a.~The Red Faz. 

Let Erin reinember the days of old, 
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; 

When Malachi wore the collar of gold, t 
Which he won from her proud invader ; 



When her kings, with standards of green unfiirl'd, 
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ; — * 

Ere the emerald gem of the western world 
Was set in the crown of a stranger. 

On Lough Neagh's bank as thefishermanstrays,t 

When the clear, cold ev«'s declining, 
He sees the round towers of other days, 

In the wave beneath him shining ! 
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, 

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; 
Thus, sighing, look through the "waves of time 

For the long-laded glories they cover ! 



* "In every house was one or two harps, free to all 
travellers, who were the more caressed the more they 
excelled in music." — O^HalJoran. 

t "This brought on an encounter between Malachi 
(tlie monarch of Iretasid in fbe tenth century) and the 
D/aea, in whicb MiUc'aj defeated two of their cham- 
131 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN 
DEARING YOUNG CHARMS,. 

Air — My Lodging is on the cold GrontuL 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charma. 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in ray 
arms. 

Like fairy gifts fading away I 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment 
thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still ! 

It is not while beauty and youth are flitne. own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervour and faith of a soul can bci known, 

To which lime will but make fhee more dear ' 
Oh I the heart that has truly loved, nei'er forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close., 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets. 

The same look which she turn'd when he rose '. 



BEFORE THE BATTLE., 

Am—Tke Fairy Qms3;e, 

By the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-rnonow's strife ; 
By that suu whose light is bringing 

Gliains or freedom, death or life — 

pions, whom he encountered successively katu), t.o 
hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and 
carrying ofFthe sword of the other, as trophies of hiu 
victory." — Warner'.'' History of Irclay^d, vol. i. book 9. 

* "Military orders of knights were very early es- 
tablished in Ireland. Long before the bhth of Christ, 
we iind a hereditary order of chivalry in Ulitor, called 
Cura idhe no Craoibhc rnadh, or the knights of the Had 
Branch, from thc-ir chief scat in Eniania, adjoining to 
the palace of the Ulster kings, called Tfcigi' w/ Oraoihhi'. 
ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch ; and con- 
tiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the 
house of the sorrowful soldier." — O' Halloro-rx' :• Intro- 
duction, etc., part i. chap. 5. 

f It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, 
that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by 
whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, 
and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, over- 
whelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear wea- 



98 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh I remember life can be 

No charm for him who hves not free ! 
Like the day-star in the wave, 
Sinks a hero to his grave, 

'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears 
Happy is he o'er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shine, 

And light him down the steep of years ; — 
But oh ! how grand they sink to rest 
Who close their eyes on Victory's breast ! 

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
Now the foeman's cheek turns white, 

When his heart that field remembers, 
Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! 

Never let him bind again 

A chain hke that we broke from then. 
Hark ! the horn of combat calls' — 
Ere the golden evening falls. 

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!* 
Many a heart, that now beats high, 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 

Nor waken even at victory's sound : — 
But oh ! how bless'd that hero's sleep. 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

AlB — Thy Fair Bosom. 

Night closed around the conqueror's way 

And hghtning's show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day 

Stood, few and faint, but fearless still.' 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, 

For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but fife and honour's lost ! 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream, 

And valour's task, moved slowly by, 
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die ! — 
There is a world where souls are free. 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
If death that world's brig'nt opening be, 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 



THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 

Am — Oage Fane. 

'Tis believed that this harp, which I wake now 

for thee, 
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea ; 



, ther, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiasti- 
cal towers under tlie water. " Piscatores aquce illius 
turres ecclesiasticas, qute more patriae arctaa sunt et 
alias, necnon el rotundce, sub undis manifeste, serene 
tempore conspiciunt et extraneis transeuntibus,reique 
eausas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt," — Topogr. 
Hib. Dist. 2. c. 9. 

* "The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to 
martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors 
quatTed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do 
Uieir beverage at this day," — Walker. 

I 



And who often, at eve, through the bright billow 

roved, 
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she 

loved. 

But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep, 
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to 

steep. 
Till Heaven looked with pity on true-love so 

warm. 
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's 

form. 

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled 

the same — 
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round 

the frame ; 
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its 

bright rings. 
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold 

strings !* 

Hence it came, that tliis soft harp so long hath 

been known 
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad 

tone ; 
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond 

lay 
To be love when I'm near thee, and grief v/hen 

away! 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM 

Am— The Old Woman. 

Oh ! the days are gone when beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ! 
When my dream of fife, from morn till night, 

Was love, still love I 

New hope may bloom, 

And days may come 

Of milder, calmer beam, 

But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 

When wild youth's past ; 
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before. 

To smile at last ; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet, 
In all his noon of fame, 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 

The one loved name ! 

Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot. 

Which first-love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 

On memory's waste ! 



* This thought was suggested by an ingenious de- 
sign, prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published 
some years since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin. 



IRISH MELODIES, 



99 



'Twas odour fled 

As soon as shed ; 
'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
'Twas a ligiit that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream! 
Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream. 



LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 

AiB — J'l'ora Creina. 

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, 

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
Right and left its arrows fly, 

But what they aim at no one dreameth ! 
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 

My Nora's hd, that seldom rises; 
Few its looks, but every one, 
Like unexpected light, surprises ! 

Oh, ray Nora Creina, dear! 
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina! 
Beauty lies 
In many eyes, 
But love in yours, my Nora Creina ! 

Lesbia wears a robe of gold. 

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 
Not a charm of Beauty's mould 

Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! 
Oh ! my Nora's gown for me. 

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
Leaving every beauty free 
To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases ! 

Yes, my Nora Creina dear ! 
My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! 
Nature's dress 
Is loveliness — 
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina ! 

Lesbia hath a wit refined, 

But, when its points are gleaming round us, 
Who can tell if they're design'd 

To dazzle merely or to wound us ? 
Pillow'd on my Nora's hesrt. 

In safer slumber love reposes — 
Bed of peace! whose roughest part 
Is but the crumbling of the roses. 

Oh ! my Nora Creina, dear ! 
My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! ^ 

Wit, though bright, 
Hath not the light 
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina! 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 

Air — Open the Door. 

She is far from the land where her young hero 
sleeps, 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying ! 



She sings the wild song of her own native plains 
Every note which he loved awaking. — 

Ah ! httle they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him, — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sun-beams 
rest. 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the 
West 
From her own loved Island of Sorrow ! 



'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

Ant — Oroves of Blarney. 

'Tie the last rose of summer. 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter. 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. , 

So soon may / follow, 

When friendships decay. 
And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie wither'd, 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ! 



OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LIT- 
TLE ISLE OF OUR OWN. 

Air — Sheela na Ouira. 

Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our own, 
In a blue summer ocean, far off" and alone, 
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming 

bowers, 
And the bee banquets on through a whole year 

of flowers ; 
Where the sun loves to pause 

With so fond a delay, 
That the night only draws 

A thin veil o'er the day ; 
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we 

live, • 

Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give ! 



100 



THOMAS MOORE. 



There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the 

chme, 
We should love, as they loved in the first golden 

time ; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the ah. 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer 

there ! 
With affection, as free 

From decline as the bowers, 
And with Hope, hke the bee, 

Living always on flowers, 
Our hfe should resemble a long day of hght, 
And our death come on, holy and calm as the 

night ! 



FAREWELL! BUT, WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Air — Moll Roone. 

Farewell ! — but, whenever you welcome the 

hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it 

too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of 

pain — 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with 

you! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each 

cup. 
Where'er my path Hes, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that 

night, 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 

wiles, 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ! — 
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay 

cheer. 
Some kind voice had raurmur'd, ' ' I wish he were 

here!" 

Let Fate do her worst, there are reUcs of joy, 

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- 
stroy ; 

Which come, in the night time of sorrow and 
care, 

And bring back the features that joy used to 
wear. 

Long, long be my heart with such memories 
fill'd! 

Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- 
till' d— 

Yoa may break, you may ruin the vase, if you 
will. 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 



COME O'ER THE SEA. 

Air — Cuishlih ma Chree. 

Come o'er the sea, 

Maiden ! with me. 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art 
not. ' 

Then, come o'er the sea, 

Maiden! with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 

Seasons may roll. 

But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 

Is not the sea 
Made for the free, 
Land for courts and chains alone ? 
Here we are slaves, 
But, on the waves. 
Love and Liberty's all our own ! 
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound ua. 
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! — - 
Then, come o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me. 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! 
Seasons may roll. 
But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 



HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS 
SHADED? 

A.m—Sl'11 Patrick. 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That, even in sorrow, were sweet ? 
Does Time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear ? — 
Then, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 

Has love to that soul, so tender, 

Been like our Lagenian mine,* 
Where sparkles of golden splendour 

All over the surface shine — 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 

Allured by the gleam that shone, 
Ah ! false is the dream of the sleeper. 

Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, t 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's ghttering glory — 

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? 



* Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse 
alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of 
them. 

f "The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, 
with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew 



IRISH MELODIES. 



101 



On branch after branch alighting, 
The gem did she still display, 

And, when nearest and most inviting, 
Then waft the fair gem away ? 

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, 

When Sorrow herself look'd bright ; 
If thus the fond hope has cheated, 

That led thee along so hght ; 
If thus, too, the cold world wither 

Elach feeling that once was dear ! — 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 



MY GENTLE HARP! 

Air — Tke Coina or Dirge. 

My gentle Harp ! once more I waken 

The sweetness of thy slumbering strain ; 
In tears our last farewell was taken, 

And now in tears we meet again. 
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken. 

But — hke those harps, whose heavenly skill 
Of slavery, dark as thine, has spoken — 

Thou hang'st upon the willows still. 

And yet, since last thy chord resounded, 
, An hour of peace and triumph came, 
And many an ardent bosom bounded, 

With hopes — that now are turn'd to shame. 
Yet even then, while Peace was singing 

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea. 
Though joy and hope to others bringing. 

She only brought new tears to thee. 

Then who can aslc for notes of pleasure, 

My drooping harp ! from chords like thine ? 
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure 

As ill would suit the swan's decline ! 
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, 

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains. 
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee, 

Are sadly mix'd— half flowers, half chains. 

But come — if yet thy frame can borrow 
One breath of joy — oh, breathe for me. 

And show the world, in chains and sorrow 
How sweet thy music still can be ; 

How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding. 
Thou yet can wake at pleasure's thrill, 



Like Memnon's broken image, sounding, 
'Mid desolation, tuneful still !* 



near it, hoping it would drop it : but, as he approached, 
the bird took vAng, and settled again," etc. — .Arabian 
Nights, Story of Kumioir al Zuminaiin and the Prin- 
cess of Chiiiii 



REMEMBER THEE! 

Air — Castle Tirowen. 

Remember thee ! yes, while there's life in this 

heart, 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy 

showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 

Wert thou all that I wish thee, — great, glorious, 

and free — 
First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea, — ■ 
I might hail thee with prouder, vnth happier 

brow, 
But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than 

now ? 

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood aa it 

runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — ■ 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's 

nest. 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy 

breast ! 



ECHO. 

\IR—The Wren. 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 

To Music at night. 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes ; 
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, 
Goes answering light. 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far, 

And far more sweet, 
Than e'er, beneath the moon-light's star. 
Of hoi'n, or lute, or soft guitar, 

The songs repeat. 

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere, 

And only then, — 
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, 
Is by that one, that only dear. 
Breathed back again ! 

* Dimideo magicie resonant ubi Memnone chordse, 
Atque vetuB Thebe centum jacst obrufa porti9. 

Juvtnal 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Walter Sava&e Landor was born at Ipsley 
Court, Warwickshire — the seat of his family, an 
ancient and honorable one — on the 30th of Janu- 
ary, 1775. He was educated at Rugby. When 
he had reached nearly the head of the school, he 
was too young for the University, and was placed 
under the tuition of Mr. Langley, at Ashbourne, 
in Derbyshire ; but a year afterwards, was entered 
at Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned 
Benwell was his private tutor. During his resi- 
dence there, he is said to have manifested that 
independence of spirit, and restlessness of control 
for which he has been since remarkable ; and was 
rusticated for shooting across the quadrangle at 
prayer-time. In 1808, on the first insurrection of 
Spain, he joined the Viceroy of GaUicia, Blake. 
The Madrid Gazette of that year rhentions a gift 
from him of 20,000 reals. On the extinction of 
the Constitution, he returned to Don P. Cevallos 
the tokens of royal approbation he had received 
from the government, and expressed his senti- 
ments on the subject in no very measured terms. 
s.In 1811, Mr. Landor married Julia, the daughter 
of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and re- 
presentative of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first 
gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles the 
Eighth. In the autumn of 1815 he retired to Italy : 
for some years he occupied the Palazzo Medici, 
in Florence, and then purchased the beautiful villa 
of Count Gherardesca, at Fiesole, with its gardens 
and farms, half a mile from the ancient villa of 
Lorenzo de' Medici. His visits to England for the 
last twenty years have been few and brief; but it 
is stated, we trust upon good authority, that " with 
all her faults," he loves his country too well to 
contemplate a final separation ; and that it is pro- 
bable the residue of his days will be spent in Eng- 
land. 

Mr. Landor has afforded ample proof of a dis- 
position exceedingly restless and excitable. He 
has more of the fierle of genius — less often wit- 
nessed than read of — than any living writer we 
could name. His countenance does not, at first, 
convey this impression ; but it is impossible not to 
perceive tnat his passions are strong, his sensibili- 
ties keen and active, and liis pride indomitable. 
His face is remarkably fine and intellectual ; and, 
as with many who profess extreme liberal opinions, 
his look and bearing are those of a man who can 
have no sympathies in common with the mean 
and vulgar. 



His works have not been popular; yet we 
might select at random, from any one of them, a 
dozen pages, out of which a more skillful, a 
more cunning, or a more humble man might 
have made a reputation. They are full to over- 
flowing ; one cannot but wonder at the vast mine 
of thought, reason, and reflection, of which they 
exhibit proofs; — at the same time, it will be la- 
mented that some peculiar notions have led him 
to neglect the means by which his strong natural 
powers might have been made universally benefi- 
cial. It is obvious that he labors to attain a dislike 
of, and a contempt for, human kind ; and that his 
kindly and benevolent nature will not permit him 
so to do : in all his writings there is^a singular and 
striking mixture of the generous with the disdain- 
ful, tenderness with wrath, strong affections with 
antipathies quite as strong. His ' ' Imaginary Con- 
versations" will endure with the language in which 
they are written ; and if they do not find readers 
in the multitude, they will be always appreciated 
by those whose judgment is valuable, and whose 
praise is reward. His latest work in prose, " Peri- 
cles and Aspasia," might justify even a warmer 
eulogy. 

Mr. Landor has pubhshed but one volume 
of Poetry, — " Gebir, Count Julian, and other 
Poems;" but several of his most powerful and 
beautiful compositions will be found scattered 
through his prose works. Our readers Vi^ill find in 
our selections ample to sustain a high reputation. 
They are polished to a degree ; yet full of fine 
thoughts and rich fancies. The evidences of his 
genius for dramatic poetry are abundant, and re- 
ceived full justice, a year ago, in the New Monthly 
Magazine. To a glowing imagination and a mind 
remarkably vigorous, he adds the advantages of 
extensive learning, and a matured knowledge of 
human kind. His indifference to public opinion — 
arising, no doubt, from a taste highly cultivated, 
and a refined appreciation of excellence — has, un- 
happily, induced him to withhold too much of the 
intellectual wealth he possesses, and even to mix 
with "baser matter" that which he has given us. 
If he had been born a poor man, he would have 
been, at least in the estimation of the world, a 
much greater man than he is. If, however, the 
fame of Walter Savage Landor be not widely 
spread, it cannot fail to be enduring. Among the 
rarest and most excellent of British Poets he will 
always be classed. 



103 



GEBIR. 



103 



GEBIR. 



FIRST BOOK. 

I SING the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt 
Among those mountam-caverns which retain 
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells, 
Nor have forgotten their old master's name 
Tho' severed from his people: here, incens'd 
By meditating on primeval wrongs, 
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose 
Whole nations ; here, ten thousand of most might 
He call'd aloud, and soon Charoba saw 
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile. 

What should the virgin do ? should royal knees 
Bend supphant, or defenceless hands engage 
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms? 
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed. 
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail, 
But that upon their tow' ring heads they bore 
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars. 
This told she DaHca, then cried aloud: 
" If on your bosom laying down my head 
I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child, 
If I have always, and Heav'n knows I have, 
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name. 
Succour this one distress, recall those days, 
Love me, tho' 'twere because you lov'd me then." 

But whether confident in magic rites 
Or toucht with sexual pride to stand implored, 
Dalica smiled, then spake : " Away those fears, 
Tho' stronger than the strongest of his kind. 
He falls . . on me devolve that charge ; he falls. 
Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure ; 
Nay, journey to his tents : a city stood 
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built, 
Whose father Gad built Gadir ; on this ground 
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war. 
Persuade him to restore the walls himself 
In honour of his ancestors, persuade . . 
But wherefor this advice ? young, unespoused, 
Charoba want persuasions ! and a queen !" 

" O Dalica!" the shuddering maid exclaimed, 
" Could I encounter that fierce frightful man ? 
Could I speak ? no, nor sigh !" 

" And canst thou reign?" 
Cried Dalica ; " yield empire or comply." 

Unfixt tho' seeming fixt, her eyes down-cast, 
The wonted buz and bustle of the court 
From far thro' sculptur'd galleries met her ear ; 
Then lifting up her head, the evening sun 
Pour'd a fresh splendour on her burnisht throne . . 
The fair Charoba, the young queen, complied. 

But Gebir when he heard of her approach 
Laid by his orbed shield, his vizor-helm, 
His buckler and his corset he laid by. 
And bade that none attend him ; at his side 
Two faithful dogs that urge the silent course. 
Shaggy, deep-chested, croucht; the crocodile. 
Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid ears 
And push their heads within their master's hand. 
There was a brightening paleness in his face, 
Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks 
Shower' d on the lonely Latmian ; on his brow 
Sorrow there was, yet nought was there severe. 
But when the royal damsel first he saw. 



Faint, hanging ou her handmaids, and her knees 
Tottering, as from the motion of the car, 
His eyes looked earnest on her, and those eyes 
Shew'd, if they had not, that they might have 

lov'd, 
For there was pity in them at that hour- 
With gentle speech, and more with gentle looks, 
He sooth' d her, but lest Pity go beyond 
And crost Ambition lose her lofty aim, 
Bending, he kist her garment, and retired. 
He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry noon 
When viands, couches, generous wines persuade, 
And slumber most refreshes, nor at night, 
When heavy dews are laden with disease. 
And blindness waits not there for lingering age. 
Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he arrived 
At those rich meadows M'here young Tamar fed 
The royal flocks entrusted to his care. 
Now, said he to himself will I repose 
At least this burthen on a brother's breast. 
His brother stood before him. He, amaz'd, 
Rear'd suddenly his head, and thus began: 
" Is it thou, brother ! Tamar, is it thou ! 
Why, standing on the valley's utmost verge, 
Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore 
Where many a league Nile blackens all the sand. 
And why that sadness ? when I passed our sheep 
The dew drops were not shaken oflfthe bar, 
Therefor if one be wanting 'tis untold." 

" Yes, one is wanting, nor is that untold," 
Said Tamar ; " and this dull and dreary shore 
Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." 
Wheron the tear stole silent down his cheek, 
Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd : 
Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying spake : 
■' Let me approach thee ; does the morning light 
Scatter this wan suffiisiono'er thy brow, 
This faint blue luster under both thine eyes ?" 

" O, brother, is this pity or reproach?" 
Cried Tamar, " cruel if it be reproach, 
If pity, O how vain !" 

" Whate'er it be 
That grieves thee, I will pity : thou but speak, 
And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for pang." 

" Gebir I then more than brothers are we now . 
Every thing, take my hand, will I confess. 
I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold ; 
How can I, lost in love ? But, Gebir, why 
That anger which has risen to your cheek? 
Can other men ? could you ? what, no reply I 
And stil more anger, and stil worse conceal'd ! 
Are these j'^our promises, your pity this?" 

" Tamar, I well may pity what I feel . . 
Mark me aright . . I feel for thee . . precede . . 
Relate me all." 

"Then will I all relate," 
Said the young shepherd, gladden'd from his heart. 
" 'Twas evening, tho' not sunset, and spring-tide* 
Level with these green meadows, seem'd stil 

higher. 
'Twas pleasant ; and I loosen' d from my neck 



* Along the Mediterranean the tides are sensible of 
hardly any variation. The coasts of Egypt are so flat, 
and the water so nearly on a level with 'em, that 
Tamar may be supposed to fancy it arising from 
spring-tide. Those who have ever from a low and 
even country looked upon the sea, will have observed 
that it seemed higher than the ground where they stood 



104 



ALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 

that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
It ahvays brings us enemies or love ! 
Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend 
I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe 
Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. 
Gebir ! it was anymph! a nymph divine ! 

1 cannot wait describing how she came, 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor ; of what happened there remains 
Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank 
Before I was aware ; for with surprise 
Moments flyrapid as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'dreed, 

I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 
Her eyes too ! O immortal Gods ! her eyes 
Resembled . . what could they resemble ? what 
Ever resemble those ! E'en her attire 
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 
Her mantle shew'd the yellow samphire-pod, 
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
Shepherd, said she, a7id will you wrestle 9iow 
And with the sailor^ s hardier race engage ? 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
How to keep up contention ; could I fail 
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? 
Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daimted, no : I will engage. 
But first said she what wager will you lay ? 
A sheep I answered add whale' er ymi will. 
I cannot she replied make that return ; 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
In the sun^s palace-porch, where lohen unyoked 
His chariot-wheel elands midway in the wave : 
Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
And I have others given me by the nymphs, 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. 
But we, by Nepltme, for no pipe contend . . 
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next. 
Now came she forward eager to engage, 
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd. 
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive. 
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like heav'n, 
To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined : 
Above her knees she drew the robe succinct. 
Above her breast, and just below her arms. 
This will preserve my breath when tightly hound, 
If struggle and equal strength should so constrain. 
Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, 
And, rushing at me, closed: I thrill'd throughout 
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. 
Again with violent impulse gushed my blood. 
And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, 
I heard it, rushing thro' each turbid vein, 
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. 



Yet with unyielding thongii uncertain arms 
I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath 
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined ; 
Often mine springing with eluded force 
Started aside, and trembled til replaced : 
And when I most succeeded, as I thought, 
My bosom and my throat felt so comprest 
That life was almost quivering on my lips. 
Yet nothing was there painful ! these are signs 
Of secret arts and not of human might . . 
What arts I cannot tell . . I only know 
My eyes grew dizzy, and my strength decay' d- 
I was indeed o'ercome ! with what regret, 
And more, with what confusion, when I reached 
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried : 
This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid. 
She smil'd, and more of pleasure than disdain 
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip. 
And eyes that languish!, lengthening, just like 

love. 
She went away ; I on the vricker gate 
Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone. 
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
But when I heard its bleating, as I did, 
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet 
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip . , 
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd . . 
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears; 
Restless then ran I to ihe highest ground 
To watch her . . she was gone . . gone down the 

tide . . 
And the long moon beam on the hard wev eand 
Lay like a jasper column half-uprear'd." 

" But, Tamar! tell me, will she not return?" 

" She will return, yet not before the moon 
Again is at the full ; she promis'd this, 
Tho' when she promis'd I could not reply." 

" By all the Gods I pity thee ? go on . . 
Fear not my anger, look not on my shame ; 
For when a lover only hears of love 
He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. 
Away v/ith watchful nights and lonely days, 
Contempt of earth and aspect up to heaven. 
With contemplation, with humility, 
A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when deform'd., 
Away with all that hides me from myself, 
Parts me from others, whispers I am wise . . 
From our own wisdom less is to be reapt 
Than from the barest folly of our fi-iend. 
Tamar ! thy pastures, large and rich, afford 
Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy sheep, 
But, battened on too much, the poorest croft 
Of thy poor neighbour yields what thine denies." 

They hastened to the camp, and Gebir there 
Resolved his native country to forgo. 
And ordered, from those ruins to the right 
They forthwith raise a city : Tamar heard 
With wonder, tho' in passing 'twas half-told, 
His brother's love, and sigh'd upon his own. 



SECOND BOOK. 

The Gadite men the royal charge obey. 
Now fragments weigh'd up from th' uneven streets 
Leave the ground black beneath ; again the sun 
Shines into what were porches, and on steps 



GEBIR. 



105 



Once warm with frequenlation . . clients, friends, 
All morning, satchel'd idlers all mid-day, 
Lying half-up and languid tho' at games. 

Some raise the painted pavement, some on wheels 
Draw slow its laminous length, some intersperse 
Salt waters thro' the sordid heaps, and seize 
The flowers and figures starting fresh to view. 
Others rub hard large masses, and essay 
To pohsh into white what they misdeem 
The'growing green of many trackless years.* 
Far off at intervals the ax resounds 
Vvith regular strong stroke, and nearer home 
Dull falls the mallet with long labour fringed. 
Here arches are discover'd, there huge beams 
flesist the hatchet, but in fresher air 
Soon drop away : there spreads a marble squared 
And smoothen'd ; some high pillar for its base 
Chose it, which now lies ruin'd in the dust. 
Clearing the soil at bottom, they espy 
A crevice: they, intent on treasure, strive 
Strenuous, and groan, to move it : one exclames 
" I hear the rusty metal grate; it moves !" 
Now, overturning it, backward they start, 
And stop again, and see a.gerpent pant, 
See his throat thicken, and the crisped scales 
Rise ruffled, while upon the middle fold 
Ho keeps his wary head and blinking eye. 
Curling more close and crouching ere he strike. 
Go mighty men, invade far cities, go . . 
And be such treasure portions to your heirs. 

Six days they labour'd : on the seventh day 
Returning, all their labours were destroyed. 
'Twas not by mortal hand, or from their tents 
'Twere visible ; for these were now removed 
Above, where neither noxious mist ascends 
Nor the way wearies ere ths work begin. 
There Gebir, pierced with sorrow, spake these 

words : 
" Ye men of Gades, armed with brazen shields, 
And ye of near Tartessus, where tho shore 
Stoops to receive the tribute which all owe 
To Boetis and his banks for their aitire, 
Ye loo whom Durius bore on level meads, 
Inherent in your hearts is bravery : 
For earth contains no nation where abounds 
The generous horse and not the warlike man. 
But neither soldier now nor steed avails : 
Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the Gods : 
Nor is there aught above hke Jove himself. 
Nor v/eighs against his purpose, when once fixt, 
Aught but, with supplicating knee, the Prayers. 
Swifter than light are they, and every face, 
Tho' different, glows with beauty ; at the throne 
Of mercy, when clouds shut it from mankind, 
They fall bare-bosom'd, and indignant Jove 
Drops at the soothing sweetness of their voice 
The thunder from his hand : let us arise 
On these high places daily, beat our breast, 
Prostrate ourselves and deprecate his wrath." 

The people bow'd their bodies and obey'd : 
Nine mornings with white ashes on their heads 
Lamented they their toil each night o'erthrown. 
And now the largest orbit of the year, 
Leaning o'er black Mocattam's rubied brow,t 



* The Verde Antico is of this country. 

fMocattam is a ridge of mountains, the boundary of 
Egypt. The summits in many places are of a deep-red 
marble. 

14 



Proceeded slow, majestic, and serene, ., 
Now seem'd not further than the nearest cliff. 
And crimson light struck soft the phosphor 

wave. 
Then Gebir spake to Taniar in these words: 
" Tamar ! I am thy elder and thy king. 
But am thy brother too, nor ever said 
Give me thy secret and become my slave : 
But haste thee not away; I will myself 
Await the nymph, disguised in thy attire." 

Then starting from attention Tamar cried: 
" Brother I in sacred truth it cannot be ! 
My life is yours, my love must be my own: 
O surely he who seeks a second love 
Never felt one, or 'tis not one I feel." 

But Gebir with complacent smile replied: 
" Go then, fond Tamar, go in happy hour . . 
But ere thou partest ponder in thy breast 
And well bethink thee, lest thou part deceiv'd, 
Will she disclose to thee the mysteries 
Of our calamity? and unconstrain'd? 
When even her love thy strength had to disclose. 
My heart indeed is full, but witness heaven ! 
My people, not my passion, fills my heart." 

" Then let me kiss thy garment" said the youth, 
"And heaven be with thee, and on me thy 
grace." 

Him then the monarc thus once more addrest: 
"Be of good courage : hast thou yet forgot 
What chaplets languisht round thy unburnt hair. 
In colour hke some tall smooth beechis leaves 
Cuii'd by autumnal suns?" 

How flattery 
Excites a pleasant, soothes a painful shame ! 

" These" amid .stifled blushes Tamar said, 
" Were of the flowering rasberry and vine : 
But ah ! the seasons will not wait for love, 
Seek out some other now." 

They parted here : 
And Gebir bending through the woodlands cull'd 
The creeping vine and viscous rasberry. 
Less green and less compliant than they were ; 
And twisted in those mossy tufts that grow 
On brakes of roses when the roses fade : 
And as he passes on, the little hinds 
That shake for bristly herds the foodful bough, 
Wonder, stand slill, gaze, and trip satisfied; 
Pleas' d more if chesnut, out of prickly husk 
Shot from the sandal, roll along the glade. 

And thus unnoticed went he, and untired 
Stept up tiie acclivity ; and as he slept, 
And as the garlands nodded o'er his brow, 
Sudden from under a close alder sprang 
Th' expectant nymph, and seiz'd him unaware. 
He stagger'd at the shock ; his feet at once 
Slipt backward from the wither'd grass short. 

graz'd; 
But striking out one arm, tho' without aim, 
Then grasping with his other, he enclos'd 
The strugglcr; she gain'd not one step's retreat. 
Urging with open hands against his throat 
Intense, now holding in her breath constrain'd, 
Now pushing with quick impulse and by starts. 
Til the dust blackened upon every pore. 
Nearer he drew her and yet nearer, claspt 
Above the knees midway, and now one arm 
Fell, and. her other lapsing o'er the neck 
Of Gebir swung against his back incurved,. 



108 



WALTER SAVAGE LA^fDOR. 



The swoln veins glowing deep, and with a groan 
On his broad shoulder fell her face reclined. 
But all she knew not whom that roseate face 
Cooi'd with its breath ambrosial ; for she stood 
High on the bank, and often swept and broke 
His chaplets mingled with her loosen'd hair. 
Whether while Tamar tarried came desire, 



The Gods will prosper thee, and Tamar prove 
How Nymphs the torments that they cause as- 
suage. 
Promise me this! indeed I think thou hast, 
But 'tis so pleasing, promise it once more." 
"Once more I promise," cried the gladdened 
king, 



And she grown languid loos'd the wdngs of love, ' " By my right hand and by myself I swear. 



Which she before held proudly at her will, 
And nought but Tamar in her soul, and nought 
Where Tamar was that seem'd or fear'd deceit, 
To fraud she yielded what no force had gain' d — 
Or whether Jove in pity to mankind. 
When from his crystal fount the visual orbs 
He fill'd with piercing ether and endued 
With somewhat of omnipotence, ordain'd 
That never two fair forms at once torment 
The human heart and draw it different ways, 
And thus in prowess hke a god the chief 
Subdued her strength nor soften'd at her charms — 
The nymph divine, the magic mistress, fail'd. 
Recovering, stil half resting on the turf. 
She look'd up wildly, and could now descry 
The kingly brow, arched lofty for command. 

" Traitor 1" said she, undaunted, tho' amaze 
Threw o'er her varying cheek the air of fear, 
"Thinkest thou thus that with impunity 



And ocean's Gods and heaven's Gods I adjure, 
j Thou shalt be Tamar's, Tamar shall be thine." 
I Then she, regarding hitn long fixt, replied : 
j " I have thy promise, take thou my advice. 
I Gebir, this land of Egypt is a land 
j Of incantation, demons rule these waves; 
: These are against thee, these thy works destroy. 
I Where thou hast built thy palace, and hast left 
I The seven pillars to remain in front, 
I Sacrifice there, and all these rites observe. 
Go, but go early, ere the gladsome Hours 
Strew saflronin the path of rising Morn, 
Ere the bee buzzing o'er flowers fresh disclosed 
Examine where he may the best alight 
Nor scatter off the bloom, ere cold-lipt herds 
Crop the pale herbage round each other's bed, 
Lead seven bulls well pastur'd and well form'd, 
Their neck unblemisht and their horns unring'd, 
And at each pillar sacrifice thou one. 



Thou hast forsooth deceived me ? dar'st thou' Around each base rub thrice the black' ning blood, 

deem : And burn the curling shavings of the hoof; 

Those eyes not hateful that have seen me fall? j And of the forehead locks thou also burn : 
O heaven ! soon may they close on my disgrace. The yellow galls, with equal care preserv'd, 
Merciless man, what ! for one sheep estranged ] Pour at the seventh statue from the north." 

He listen'd, and on her his eyes intent 
Perceiv'd her not, and she had disappear'd . . 
So deep he ponder'd her important words. 
And now had morn aris'n and he perform'd 



Hast thou thrown into dungeons and of day 
Amerst thy shepherd ? hast thou, while the iron 
Pierc'd thro' his tender limbs into his soul. 
By threats, by tortures, torn out that ofTense, 
And heard him (0 could I) avow his love ? 
Say, hast thou ? cruel, hateful ! . . ah my fears ! 
I feel them true ! speak, tell me, are they true?" 

She blending thus entreaty whh reproach 
Bent forward, as tho' falhng on her knee 
Whence she had hardly risen, and at this pause 



Almost the whole enjoined him : he had reacht 
The seventh statue, poured the yellow galls, 
The forelock from his left he had releast 
And burnt the curling shavings of the hoof 
Moisten' d v*'ith myrrh ; when suddenly a flame 
Spired from the fragrant smoke, nor sooner spired 



Shed from her large dark eyes a shower of tears. | Down sank the brazen fabric at his feet. 

Th' Iberian King her sorrow thus consoled. ! He started back, gazed, nor could aught but gaze, 
"Weep no more, heavenly damsel, weep no ; And cold dread stifFen'd up his hair flower-twdned; 

more : ; Then with a long and tacit step, one arm 

Neither by force withheld, or choice estranged ; Behind, and every finger wide outspred. 
Thy Tamar lives, and only lives for thee. \ He look'd and totter'd on a black abyss. 

Happy, thrice happy, you ! 'tis me alone i He thought he sometimes heard a distant voice 

Whom heaven and earth and ocean with one hate ' Breathe thro' the cavern's mouth, and further on 
Conspire on, and throughout each path pursue. : Faint murmurs now, now hollow groans reply. 
Whether in waves beneath or skies above i Therefor suspended he his crook above, 

Thou hast thy habitation, 'tis from heaven, j Dropt it, and heard it rolhng step by step : 

From heaven alone, such power, such charms, ; He enter'd, and a mingled sound arose 

descend. : Like one (when shaken from some temple's roof 

Then oh ! discover whence that ruin comes By zealous hand, they and their fretted nest) 

Each night upon our city, whence are heard i Of birds that wintering watch inMemnon's tomb, 

Those yells of rapture round our fallen walls : ' And tell the halcyons when spring first returns. 
In our affliction can the Gods delight, 

Or meet oblation for the Nymphs are tears ?" 

He spake, and indignation sank in woe. ! 

Which she perceiving, pride refresht her heart 
Hope wreath' d her mouth with smiles, and she 

exclamed : 
" Neither the Gods afflict you, nor the Nymphs, i 
Return me him who won my heart, return ' 

Him whom my bosom pants for, as the steeds 
In the sun's chariot for the western wave, 



THIRD BOOK. 

FOR the spirit of that matchless man 
Whom Nature led throughout her whole domain, 
While he embodied breath' d etherial air ! 

Tho' panting in the play-hour of my youth 

1 drank of Avon too, a dangerous draught. 



GEBIR. 



107 



That rous'd within the feverish thirst of song, 

Yet never may I trespass o'er the stream 

Of jealous Acheron, nor alive descend 

The silent and unsearchable abodes 

Of Erebus and Night, nor unchastised 

Lead up long-absent heroes into day. 

When on the pausing theater of earth 

Eve's shadowy curtain falls, can any man 

Bring back the far-off intercepted hills, 

Grasp the round rock-built turret, or arrest 

The glittering spires that pierce the brow of 

Heav'n? 
Rather can any with outstripping voice 
The parting Sun's gigantic strides recall? 

Twice sounded Gehir ! twice th' Iberian king 
Thought it the strong vibration of the brain 
That struck upon his ear ; but now descried 
A form, a man, come nearer : as he came 
His unshorn hair grown soft in these abodes 
Waved back, and scatter'd thin and hoary light. 
Living, men called him Aroar, but no more 
In celebration or recording verse 
His name is heard, no more by Arnon's side 
The well-wall'd city which he rear'd remains. 
Gebir was now undaunted, for the brave 
When they no longer doubt no longer fear. 
And would have spoken, but the shade began. 

" Brave son of Hesperus ! no mortal hand 
Has led thee hither, nor without the Gods 
Penetrate thy firm feet the vast profound. 
Thou knowest not that here thy fathers lie, 
The race of Sidad ; their' s was loud acclame 
When living, but their pleasure was in war ; 
Triumphs an.d hatred followed : I myself 
Bore, men irnagiu'd, no inglorious part: 
The Gods thought otherwise, by whose decree 
Depriv'd of life, and more, of death depriv'd, 
I stil hear shrieking thro' the moonless night 
Their discontented and deserted shades. 
Observe these horrid v/alls, this rueful waste I 
Here some refresh the vigour of the mind 
AVith contemplation and cold penitence : 
Nor wonder while thou hearest that the soul 
Thus puriiied hereafter may ascend 
Surmounting all obstruction, nor ascribe 
The sentence to indulgence ; each extreme 
Has tortures for ambition ; to dissolve 
In everlasting languour, to resist 
Its impulse, but in vain : to be enclosed 
Within a limit, and that limit fire ; 
Sever'd from happiness, from eminence. 
And flying, but hell bars us, from ourselves. 

Yet rather all these torments most endure 
Than solitary pain and sad remorse 
And tow'ring thoughts on their own breast o'er- 

turn'd 
And piercing to the heart : such penitence. 
Such contemplation theirs ! thy ancestors 
Bear up againtthem, nor will they submit 
To conquering Time the asperities of Fate : 
Yet could they but revisit earth once more. 
How gladly would they poverty embrace, 
How labour, even for their deadliest foe ! 
It little now avails them to have rais'd 
Beyond the Syrian regions, and beyond 
Phenicia, trophies, tributes, colonies: 
Follow thou me . . mark what it all avails." 

Him Gebir followed, and a roar confused 



Rose from a river rolling in its bed. 

Not rapid, that would rouse the wretched souls, 

Nor calmly, that might lull them to repose; 

But with dull, weary lapses it upheaved 

Billows of bale, heard low, yet heard afar. 

For when hell's iron portals let out night, 

Often men start and shiver at the sound, 

And he so silent on the restless couch 

They hear their own hearts beat. Now Gebir 

breath'd 
Another air, another sky beheld : 
Twilight broods here, luU'd by no nightingale 
Nor waken'd by the shrill lark dewy-winged, 
But glowing with one sullen sunless heat. 
Beneath his foot nor sprouted flower nor herb 
Nor chirpt a grasshopper ; above his head 
Fhlegethon form'd a firy firmament ; 
Part were sulphurous clouds involving, part 
Shining hke solid riba of molten brass ; 
For the fierce element which else aspires 
Higher and higher and lessens to the sky. 
Below, Earth's adamantine arch rebuft. 

Gebir, tho' now such languour held his limbs, 
Scarce aught admir'd he, yet he this admir'd ; 
And thus addrest him then the conscious guide. 
" Beyond that river lie the happy fields ; 
From them fly gentle breezes, which when drawn 
Against yon crescent convex, but unite 
Stronger with what they could not overcome. 
Thus they that scatter freshness thro' the groves 
And meadows of the fortunate, and fill 
With liquid light the marble bowl of Earth, 
And give her blooming health and spritely force, 
Their fire no more diluted, nor its darts 
Blunted by passing thro' thick myrtle bowera, 
Neither from odours rising half dissolved, 
Point forward Phlegethon's eternal flame ; 

I And this horizon is tiie spacious bovi' 

j Whence each ray reaches to the world above." 
The hero pausing, Gebir then besought 

I What region held his ancestors, what clouds, 
What waters, or wliat Gods, from his embrace. 
Aroar then sudden, as tho' rous'd, renew'd. 

I " Come thou, if ardour urges thee and force 

! Suffices . . mark me, Gebir, I unfold 
No fable to allure thee . . on ! behold 
Thy ancestors I" and lo I with horrid gasp 
The panting flame above his head recoil'd, 
And ihunder thro' liis heart and life blood throb'd. 
Such sound could human organs on,",e conceive. 
Cold, speechless, palsied, not the soothing voice 
Of friendship or almost of Diety 
Could raise the wretched mortal from the dust ; 
Beyond man's home condition they ! with eyes 
Intent, and voice desponding, and unheard 
By Aroar, tho' he tarried at his side, 
" They know me not," cried Gebir, " O my sires. 
Ye know me not I they answer not, nor hear. 
How distant are they stil ! what sad extent 
Of desolation must we overcome ! 
Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wtetcf: 
Is that with eyebrows white, and slanting brow ? 
Listen ! him yonder who bound down supine, 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there engine- 
hung ; 
He too among my ancestors ?" 

' ' O King ! 
Iberia bore tiim, but the breed accurst 



108 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east." 
" He was a warrior then, nor feared the GJods ?" 
" Gebir, he feared the Demons, not the Gods ; 
Tho' them indeed his daily face adored. 
And was no warrior, yet the iliousand lives 
Squander'd as stones to exercise a sling ! 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice . . 
Oh madness of mankind ! addrest, adored ! 
O Gebir ! what are men, or where are Gods ! 
Behold the giant next him, how his feet 
Plunge floundering mid the marshes yellow- 
flower' d, 
His restless head just reaching to the rocks. 
His bosom tossing with black weeds besmear'd, 
How writhes he 'twixt the continent and ile ! 
What tyrant with more insolence e'e reclaim'd 
Dominion ? when from the heart of Usury 
Rose more intense the pale-flamed thirst for gold ? 
And call'd forsooth Deliverer ! False or fools 
Who praised the dull-ear'd miscreant, or who 

hoped 
To soothe your folly and disgrace with praise ! 
Hearest thou not the harp's gay simpering air 
And merriment afar ? then come, advance ; 
And now behold him ! mark the wretch accurst 
Who sold his people to a rival king . . 
Self-yoked they stood two ages unredeem'd." 

" O horror ! what pale visage rises there ! 
Speak, Aroar ! me perhaps mine eyes deceive, 
Inured not, yet methinks they there descry 
Such crimson haze as sometimes drowns the moon. 
What is yon awful sight? why thus appears 
That space between the purple and the crown ?" 

" I will relate their stories when we reach 
Our confines" said the guide ; "for thou, O king. 
Differing in both from all thy countrymen, 
Seest not their stories and hast seen their fates. 
But while we tarry, lo again the flame 
Riseth, and murmuring hoarse, points straighter, 

haste ! 
'Tifi urgent, we must hence." 

" Then O adieu !" 
Cried Gebir and groan' d loud, at last a tear 
Burst from his eyes tiirn'd back, and he exclamed : 
" Am I deluded ? O ye powers of hell ! 
Suffer me . . O my fathers ! . . am I torne" . . 
He epake, and would have spoken more, but 

flames 
Enwrapt him round and round intense; he turn' d ., 
And stood held breathless in a ghost's embrace. 
" Gebir, ray son, desert me not ! I heard 
Thy calling voice, nor fate witheld me more : 
One moment yet remains ; enough to know 
Soon will my torments, soon v/ill thine, expire. 
O that I e'er exacted such a vow ! 
When dipping in the victim's blood thy hand, 
First thou withdrew' st it, looking in my face 
Wondering ; but when the priest my will ex- 
planed, 
Then swarest thou, repeating what he said, 
How against Egypt thou wouldst raise that hand 
And bruise the seed first risen from our Hne. 
Therefor in death what pangs have I endured ! 
Rackt on the firy center of the sun. 
Twelve years I saw the ruin'd world roll round. 
Shudder not . . I have borne it . . I deserved 
My wretched fate . . be better thine . . farewell" 
O stay, my father ! stay one moment more - i 



Let me return thee that embrace . . 'lis past . . 
Aroar ! how could I quit it unreturn'd ! 
And now the gulf divides us, and the waves 
i Of sulphur bellow thro' the blue abyss. 
! And is he gone for ever ! and I come 
In vain?" Then sternly said the guide: "In 

vain ! 
Sayst thou ? what wouldst thou more ? alas, O 

prince, 
None come for pastime here ! but is it nought 
To turn thy feet from evil ? is it nought 
Of pleasure to that shade if they are turn'd? 
For this thou camest hither : he who dares 
To penetrate this darkness, nor regards 
The dangers of the way, shall reascend 
In glory, nor the gates of hell retard 
His steps, nor demon's nor man's art prevail. 
Once in each hundred years, and only once, 
Whether by some rotation of the world. 
Or whether will'd so by some pow'r above, 
This flaming arch starts back, each realm descries 
Its opposite, and Bliss from her repose 
Freshens and feels her own security." 

" Security I" cried out the Gadite king, 
" And feel they not compassion ?" 

"Child of earth," 
Calmly said Aroar at his guest's surprise, 
" Some so disfigur'd by habitual crimes, 
Others are so exalted, so refined, 
So permeated by heaven, no trace remains 
Graven on earth : here Justice is supreme ; 
Compassion can be but where passions are. , 
Here are discover'd those who tortured Law 
To silence or to speech, as pleas'd themselves: 
Here also those who boasted of their zeal 
And lov'd their country for the spoils it gave. 
Hundreds, whose glitt'ring merchandise the lyre 
Dazzled vain wretches drunk with flattery, 
And wafted them in softest airs to Heav'n, 
Doom'd to be stil deceived, here slil attune 
The wonted strings and fondly woo applause : 
Their wish half granted, they retain their own, 
Bui madden at the mockery of the shades. 
Upon the river's other side there grow 
Deep olive groves; there other ghosts abide, 
Blest indeed they, but not supremely blest. 
We cannot see beyond, we cannot see 
Aught but our opposite, and here are fates 
How opposite lo ours ! here some observ'd 
Religious rights, some hospitality : 
Strangers, Vv'ho from the good old men retired, 
Closed the gate gently, lest from generous use 
Shutting and opening of its own accord. 
It shake unsettled slumbers ofT their coi!.<..h : 
Some stopt revenge athirst for slaughter, some 
Sovv'd the slow olive for a race unborn. 
These had no wishes, therefor none are crown'd: 
But theirs are tufted banks, theirs umbrage, theirs 
Enough of sunshine to enjoy the shade. 
And breeze enough to lull thera to repose." 

Then Gebir cried ; "Illustrious host, procede, 
Bring me among cnc wonders of a realm 
Admired by all, but like a tale admired. 
We take our children from their cradled sleep, 
And on their fancy from our own impress 
Etherial forms and adulating fates I 
But ere departing for such scenes ourselves 
We seize their hands, we hang upon their neck, 



GEBIR. 



10S» 



Our beds cling heavy round us with our tears, 
Agony strives with agony . . Just Gods I 
Whereibr should wretched mortals thus believe, 
Or wherfor should they hesitate to die?" 
Thus while he question'd, all his strength dis- 

SOlv'd 

Within him, thunder shook his troubled brain. 
He started, and the cavern's mouth survey'd 
Near, and beyond his people ; he arose, 
And bent toward them his bewilder' d way. 



FOURTH BOOK. 

The king's lone road, his visit, his return, 
Were not unknown to Dalica, nor long 
The wondrous tale from royal ears delaid. 
When the young queen had heard who taught 

the rites 
Her mind was shaken, and what first she asked 
Was, whether the sea-maids were very fair. 
And was it true that even gods were moved 
By female charms beneath the waves profound, 
And joined to them in marriage, and had sons . . 
Who knows but Gebir sprang then from the 

Gods! 
He that could pity, he that could obey, 
Flatter'd both female youth and princely pride, 
The same ascending from amid the shades 
Shew'd Pow'r in frightful attitude : the queen 
Marks the surpassing prodigy, and strives 
To shake offterrour in her crowded court, 
And wonders why she trembles, nor suspects 
How Fear and Love assume each other's form, 
By birth and secret compact how allied. 
Vainly (to conscious virgins I appeal) 
Vainly with crouching tigers, prowling wolves 
Rocks, precipices, waves, storms, thunderbolts. 
All his immense inheritance, would Fear 
The simplest heart, should Love refuse, assail: 
Consent . . the maiden's pillowed ear imbibes 
Constancy, honour, truth, fidelity. 
Beauty and ardent lips and longing arms ; 
Then fades in glimmering distance half the scene, 
Then her heart quails and flutters and would 

fly. . 
'Tis her beloved ! not to her ! ye Pow'rs ! 
What doubting maid exacts the vow? behold 
Above the myrtles his protesting hand I 
Such ebbs of doubt and swells of jealousy 
Toss the fond bosom in its hour of sleep 
Avid float around the eyelids and sink thro'. 

Lo ! mirror of delight in cloudless days, 
Lo ! thy reflexion : 'twas when I exclamod. 
With kisses hurried as if each foresaw 
Their end. and reckon'd on our broken bonds. 
And could at such a price such loss endure r. 
" O what to faithful lovers met at morn, 
What half so pleasant as imparted fears !" 
Looking recumbent how Love's column rose 
Marmoreal, trophied round with golden hair, 
How in the valley of one lip unseen 
He slumber'd, one his unstrung bow imprest. 
Sweet wilderness of soul-entangling charms! 
Led back by Memory, and each blissful maze 
Retn>.cing, nie with magic power detain 



Those dimpled cheeks, those temples violet- 
tinged, 
Those hps of nectar and those eyes of heav'n' 

Charoba, tho' indeed she never drank* 
The liquid pearl, or twined the nodding crovra, 
Or when she wanted fool and calm repose 
Dreamt of the crawling asp and grated tomb, 
Was wretched up to royalty : the jibe 
Struck her, most piercing where love pierc'd be 

fore, 
From those whose freedom centers in their 

tongue, 
Handmaidens, pa^es, courtiers, priests, buffooiw. 
Congratulations here, there prophecies. 
Here children, not repining at neglect 
While tumult sweeps them ample room for play, 
Every-where questions answer'd ere begun, 
Every-where crowds, for every-v/here alarm. 
Thus winter gone, nor spring (tho' near) arriv'd. 
Urged slanting onward by the bickering breeze 
That issues from beneath Aurora's car, 
Shudder the sombrous waves ; at every beam 
More vivid, more by every breath impell'd, 
Higher and higher up the fretted rocks 
Their turbulent refulgence they display. 
Madness, vi'hich like the spiral element 
The more it seizes on the fiercer burns. 
Hurried them blindly forward, and involved 
In flame the senses and in gloom ihc soul. 
Determin'd to protect the country's gods 
And asking their protection, they adjure 
Each other to stand forward, and insist 
With zeal, and trample under foot the slow ; 
And disregardful of the Sympathies 
Divine, those Sympathies whose delicate hand 
Touching the very eyeball of the heart. 
Awakens it, not wounds it nor inflames. 
Blind wretches ! they with desperate embrace 
Hang on the pillar til the temple fall. 
Oft the grave judge alarms religious wealth 
And rouses anger under gentle words. 
Woe to the wiser few who dare to cry 
" People ! these men are not your enemies, 
Enquire their errand, and resist when wrong'd." 
Together childhood, priesthood, womanhood, 
The scribes and elders of the land, exclame 
' ' Seek they not hidden treasures in the tomba f 
Raising the ruins, levelling the dust. 
Who can declare whose ashes they disturb '. 
Build they not fairer cides than our own. 
Extravagant enormous apertures 
For light, and portals larger, open courts 
Where all ascending all are unconfin'd, 
And wider streets in purer air than ours? 
Temples quite plain with equal architraves 
They build, nor bearing gods like ours imbost. 
O profanation! O our ancestors!" 

Tho' all the vulgar hate a forein face, 
It more offends weak eyes and homely age, 
Dalica most, who thus her aim pursued. 



* Aiitonius w^as afraid of poison : Cleopatra, to 
prove the injustice of his suapicions, and the ease 
with which the poison iniglit be administered, if sueii 
had beon lier intention, shook it from the crown of 
flowers upon her head, into a goblet of wine which she 
presented to him. Before he had raised it to his lipSi 
she represt him, told him it, and establisht hia confi- 
dence for ever. 



110 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 



"My promise, Charoba, I perform. 
Proclame to gods and men a festival 
Throughout the land, and bid the strangers eat ; 
Their anger thus we haply may disarm." 

" O Dalica," the grateful queen replied, 
"Nurse of my childhood, soother of my cares, 
Preventer of my wishes, of my thoughts, 
O pardon youth, O pardon royalty ! 
If hastily to Dahca I sued. 
Fear might impell me, never could distrust. 
Go then, for wisdom guides thee, take my name, 
Issue what most imports and best beseems, 
And sovranty shall sanction the decree." 

And now Charoba was alone, her heart 
Grew lighter ; she sat down, and she arose, 
She felt voluptuous tenderness, but felt 
That tenderness for Dalica ; she prais'd 
Her kind attention, warm solicitude. 
Her wisdom . . for what wisdom pleas'd like hers! 
She was dehghted ; should she not behold 
Gebir ? she blusht ; but she had words to speak. 
She form'd them and reform'd them, with regret 
Thai there was somewhat lost with every change ; 
She could replace them . . what would that 

avail? . . 
Moved from their order they have lost their 

charm. 
While thus she strew' d her way with softest 

words, 
Others grew up before her, but appear'd 
A plenteous rather than perplexing choice : 
She rub'd her palms with pleasure, heav'd a sigh, 
Grew calm again, and thus her thoughts re- 
volv'd . . 
" But he descended to the tombs! the thought 
Thrills me, I must avow it, with affright. 
And wherefor ? shews he not the more belov'd 
Of heaven ? or how ascends he back to day? 
Then has he wrong'd me ? could he want a cause 
Who has an army and was bred to reign ? 
And yet no reasons against rights he urged. 
He threaten' d not, proclamed not ; I approacht, 
He hasten'd on ; I spake, he hsten'd ; wept. 
He pity'd me ; he lov'd me, he obey'd ; 
He was a conqueror, stil am I a queen." 

She thus indulged fond fancies, when the sound 
Of trimbrels and of cymbals struck her ear. 
And horns and bowlings of wild jubilee. 
She fear'd, and listen'd to confirm her fears; 
One breath sufficed, and shook her refluent soul. 
Smiting, with simulated smile constrain'd. 
Her beauteous bosom, " O perfidious man, 
O cruel foe !" she twice and tlirice exclamed, 
" my companions equal-aged ! my throne, 
My people ! O how wretched to presage 
This day, how tenfold wretched to endure !" 

She ceast, and instantly the palace rang 
With gratulation roaring into rage . . 
'Twas her own people. " Health to Gebir ! health 
To our compatriot subjects I to our queen 
Health and unfaden youth ten thousand years !" 
Then went the victims forward crown'd with 

flowers, 
Grown'd were tame crocodiles, and boys white- 
robed 
Guided their creaking crests across the stream. 
In gilded barges went the female train. 
And, hearing others ripple near, undrew | 



The veil of sea-green awning : if they found 
Whom they desired, how pleasant was the breeze! 
If not, the frightful water forced a sigh. 
Sweet airs of music ruled the rowing palms, 
Now rose they glistening and aslant rechned. 
Now they descended and with one consent 
Plunging, seem'd swift each other to pursue. 
And now to tremble wearied o'er the wave. 
Beyond and in the suburbs might be seen 
Crowds of all ages : here in triumph passed 
Not without pomp, tho' raised with rude device, 
The monarch and Charoba; there a throng 
Shone out in sunny whiteness o'er the reeds. 
Nor could luxuriant youth, or lapsing age 
Propt by the corner of the nearest street, 
With aching eyes and tottering knees intent. 
Loose leathery neck and wormlike lip outstretcht, 
Fix long the ken upon one form, so swift 
Thro' the gay vestures fluttering on the bank, 
And thro' the bright-eyed waters dancing round, 
Wove they their wanton wiles and disappear'd. 
Meantime, with pomp august and solemn, 
borne 
On four white camels tinkling plates of gold, 
Heralds before and Ethiop slaves behind, 
Each with the signs of office in his hand. 
Each on his brow the sacred stamp of years. 
The four ambassadors of peace precede. 
Rich carpets bear they, corn and generous mne, 
The Syrian olive's cheerful gift they bear. 
With stubborn goats that eye the mountain tops 
Askance and riot with reluctant horn. 
And steeds and stately camels in their train. 
The king, who sat before his tent, descried 
The dust rise redden' d from the setting sun : 
Thro' all the plains below the Gadite men 
Were resting from their labour: some surveyed 
The spacious site ere yet obstructed . . walls 
Already, soon will roofs have interposed ; 
Some ate their frugal viands on the steps 
Contented ; some, remembering home, prefer 
The cot's bare rafters o'er the gilded dome, 
And sing, for often sighs too end in song : 
"In smiling meads how sweet the brook's re- 
pose, 
To the rough ocean and red restless sands ! 
Where are the woodland voices that increaat 
Along the unseen path on festal days. 
When lay the dry and outcast arbutus 
On the fane-step, and the first privet-flowers 
Threw their white light upon the vernal shrine V 
Some heedless trip along with hasty step 
Whisthng, and fix too soon on their abodes: 
Haply and one among them with his spear 
Measures the lintel, if so great its highth 
As will receive him with his helm unlower'd. 
But silence went throughout, e'en thoughts 
were husht. 
When to full view of navy and of camp 
Now first expanded the bare-headed train. 
Majestic, unpresuming, unappall'd, 
Onward they marched, and neither to the right 
Nor to the left, tho' there the city stood, 
Turn'd they their sober eyes; and now they 

reacht 

Within a few steep paces of ascent 
The lone pavilion of the Iberian king : 
He saw them, he awaited them, he rose, 



GEBIR. 



Ill 



He hail'd them, " Peace be with you:" they re- 
plied 
" King of the western world, be with you peace." 



FIFTH BOOK. 

Once a fair city, courted then by kings, 
Mistress of nations, throng'd by palaces. 
Raising her head o'er destiny, her face 
Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresht. 
Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth, 
Bereft of beauty, bare of ornaments, 
Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar. 
Ere far advancing, all appear'd a plain ; 
Treacherous and fearful mountains, far advanced. 
Her glory so gone down, at huinan step 
The fierce hyena frighted from the walls 
Bristled his rising back, his teeth unsheathed. 
Drew the long growl and with slow foot retired. 
Yet were remaining some of ancient race, 
And ancient arts were now their sole dehght : 
With Time's first sickle they had markt the hour 
When at their incantation would the Moon 
Start back, and shuddering shed blue blasted 

light. 
The rifted rays they gather'd, and immerst 
In potent portion of that wondrous wave, 
Which, hearing rescued Israel, stood erect. 
And led her armies thro' his crystal gates. 

Hither (none shared her way, her counsel none) 
Hied the Masarian Dalica: 'twas night. 
And the still breeze fell languid on the waste. 
She, tired with journey long and ardent thoughts, 
Stopt ; and before the city she descried 
A female form emerge above the sands: 
Intent she fixt her eyes, and on herself 
Relying, with fresh vigour bent her way ; 
Nor disappear'd the woman ; but exclamed, 
One hand retaining tight her folded vest : 
" Stranger ! who loathest life, there lies Masar. 
Begone, nor tarry longer, or ere morn 
The cormorant in his solitary haunt 
Of insulated rock or sounding cove 
Stands on thy bleached bones and screams for 

prey. 
My lips can scatter them a hundred leagues. 
So shrivel' d in one breath as all the sands 
We tread on, could not in as many years. 
Wretched who die nor raise their sepulcre ! 
Therefor begone." 

— But Dalica unaw'd, 
(Tho' in her wither' d but stil firm right-hand 
Held up with imprecations hoarse and deep 
Glimmer'd her brazen sickle, and inclosed 
Within its figur'd curve the fading moon) 
Spake thus aloud. " By yon bright orb of Heaven, 
In that most sacred moment when her beam 
Guided first thither by the forked shaft, 
Strikes thro' the crevice of Arishtah's tower . ." 

" Sayst thou?" astonisht cried the sorceress, 
" Woman of outer darkness, fiend of death, 
From what inhuman cave, what dire abyss. 
Hast thou invisible that spell o'erheard? 
What potent hand hath toucht thy quicken'd 

corse, 
What song dissolved thy cerements, who unclosed 
Those faded eyes and fill'd them from the stars ? 



But if with inextinguisht light of life 
I'hou breathest, soul and body unamerst, 
Then whence that invocation ? who hath dared 
Those hallow'd words, divulging, to profane ?" 

Dalica cried, " To heaven not earth addrest. 
Prayers for protection cannot be profane." 

Here the pale sorceress turn'd her face aside 
Wildly, and mutter'd to herself amazed ; 
"I dread her who, alone at such an hour, 
Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine 
The words of reason with our gifted rites, 
Yet will I speak once more . . If thou hast seen 
The city of Charoba, hast thou markt 
The steps of Dalica ?" 

" What then?" 

" The tongue 
Of Dahca has then our rites divulged." 

" Whose rites?" 

" Her sister's, mother's, and her own." 

" Never." 

" How sayst thou never? one would think, 
Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica." 

"I am. 
Woman, and who art thou?" 

With close embrace. 
Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried: 
" Art thou then not my sister ? ah I fear 
The golden lamps and jewels of a court 
Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity : 
O Dalica, mine watch the waning moon, 
For ever patient in our mother's art. 
And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts 
OfWisdomrise, where sound the wingsof Power; 
Studies intense of strong and stern delight ! 
And thou too, Dalica, so many years 
Wean'd from the bosom of thy native land, 
Returnest back and seekest true repose. 
O what more pleasant than the short-breath'd sigh 
When laying down your burthen at the gate. 
And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace 
The cool and quiet of a homespun bed." 

" Alas" said Dalica " tho' all commend 
This choice, and many meet with no controul, 
Yet none pursue it ! Age by Care opprest 
Feels for the couch, and drops into the grave. 
The tranquil scene lies further stil from Youth : 
Frenzied Ambition and desponding Love 
Consume Youth's fairest flow'rs; compared with 

Youth 
Age has a something something like repose. 
Myrthyr, I seek not here a boundary 
Like the horizon, which, as you advance, 
Keeping its form and colour, yet recedes : 
But mind my errand, and my suit perform. 

Twelve years ago Charoba first could speak: 
If her indulgent father asked her name, 
She would indulge him too, and would reply 
What? why, Charoha! rais'd with sweet surprise, 
And proud to shine a teacher in her turn. 
Shew her the graven sceptre ; what its use ? 
'Twas to beat dogs with, and to gather flies. 
She thought the crown a plaything to amuse 
Herself, and not the people, for she thought 
Who mimick infant words might infant toys . 
But while she watched grave elders look with awe 
On such a bauble, she witheld her breath ; 
She was afraid her parents should suspect 
They had caught childhood from her in a kiss , 



112 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



She blusht for shame, and fear'd . . for she be 

liev'd. 
Yet was not courage wanting in the child. 
No ; I have often seen her with both hands 
Shake a dry crocodile of equal highth. 
And listen to the shells within the scales, 
And fancy there was life, and yet apply 
The jagged jaws wide open to her ear. 
Past are three summers since she first beheld 
The ocean ; all around the child await 
Some exclamation of amazement here : 
She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, 
Is this the mighty ocean ? is t?iis all ! 
That wondrous soul Charoba once possest, 
Capacious then as earth or heaven could hold. 
Soul discontented with capacity, 
Is gone, I fear, for ever. Need I say 
She was enchanted by the wicked spells 
Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed 
The western winds have landed on our coast. 
I since have watcht her in each lone retreat, 
Have heard her sigh and soften out the name, 
Then would she change it for Egyptian sounds 
More sweet, and seem to taste them on her lips. 
Then loathe them . . Gebir, Gebir stil return'd. 
Who would repine, of reason not bereft! 
For soon the sunny stream of Youth runs down. 
And not a gadfly streaks th^ lake beyond. 
Lone in the gardens, on her gather'd vest 
How gently would her languid arm rechne ! 
How often have I seen her kiss a flower. 
And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek ! 
Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. 
Whether by spell imperfect, or while brew'd 
The sweUing herbs infected him with foam, 
Oft have the shepherds met him wandering 
Thro' unfrequented paths, oft overheard 
Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies 
Which they believe assuredly were meant 
For spirits who attended him unseen. 
But when from his illuded eyes retired 
That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, 
He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed ; 
Then owning it was folly, strange to tell. 
Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. 
Next, when his passion had subsided, went 
Where from a cistern, green and ruin'd, oozed 
A little rill, soon lost ; there gather'd he 
Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, 
Tvnning complacently their tender stems 
With plants of kindest pliability. 
These for a garland woven, for a crown 
He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk 
The grass was whiten'd with their roots knipt off. 
These threw he, finisht, in the little rill 
And stood surveying them with steady smile : 
But such a smile as that of Gebir bids 
To Comfort a defiance, to Despair 
A welcome, at whatever hour she please. 
Had I observ'd him I had pitied him, 
I have observed Charoba : I have asked 
If she loved Gebir. 

Love him ! she exelamed 
With such a start of terror, such a flush 
Of anger, I lave Gebir ? I in love ? 
And looked so piteous, so impatient looked . . 
And burst, before I answer' d, into tears. 
Then saw I, plainly saw I, 'twas not love ; 



For such her natural temper, v, hat she likea 
She speaks it out, or rather i-he coiiinianda. 
And could Charoba say with greater ease 
Bring me a wntcr-meloufrom the Nile, 
Than, if she lov'd him, Bring vie him I {#%;. 
Therefor the death of Gebir is resolv'd." 

" Resolv'd indeed," cried Myrthyr, nought 
surprised, 
" Precious my arts! I could witiioui remorse 
Kill, tho' I hold thee dearer than the day, 
E'en thee thyself, to exercise my arts. 
Look yonder ! mark yon pomp of limeral '. 
Is this from fortune, or from favouring stars? 
Dalica, look thou yonder, wliat a train ! ,» 
What weeping! O whot lu-wii y ! come, haste, 
Gather me quickly up these herbs I dropt, 
And then away . . hush ! I must unobserved 
From those two maiden sisters pull the spleen : 
Dissemblers! how invidious they surround 
The virgin's tomb, where all but virgins weep." 

" Nay, hear me first," cried Dalica, " 'tis hard 
To perish to attend a forein king." 

" Perish ! and may not then mine eye alone 
Draw out the venom drop, and yet remain 
Enough ? the portion cannot be perceived." 
Away she hasten'd with it to her home, 
And, sprinkling thrice fresh sulphur o'er (he 

hearth. 
Took up a spindle with mahgnant smile. 
And pointed to a woof, nor spake a word ; 
'Twaa a dark purple, and its dye was dread. 

Plunged in a lonely house, to her unknown, 
Now Dahca first trembled: o'er the roof 
Wander'd her haggard eyes . . 'twas some re- 
lief. 
The massy stones, tho' hewn most roughly, 

shew'd 
The hand of man had once at least been there : 
But from this object sinking back amazed. 
Her bosom lost all consciousness, and shook 
As if suspended in unbounded space. 
Her t'nus entranced the sister's voice recall'd, 
" Behold if hero dyed once again ! 'tis done." 
Dalica slept, and felt beneath her feet 
The slippery floor, with moulder'd duat bs- 

strewn : 
But Myrthyr seized with bare bold-sinew'd arm 
The grey^ cerastes, writhing from her grasp, 
And twisted off" his horn, nor feared to squeeze 
The viscous poison from his glowing guma. 
Nor wanted there the root of stunted shrub* 
Which he lays ragged, hanging o'er the sands, 
And whence the weapons of his wrath are death: 
Nor the blue urchin that with clammy fint 
Holds down the tossing vessel for the tides. 

Together these her sclent hand combined, 
And more she added, dared I mention more. 
Which done, with words most potent, thrice ehe 

dipt 
The reeking garb ; thrice waved it thro' the air: 
She ceast ; and suddenly the creeping wool 
Shrunk up with crisped dryness in her hands: 
" Take this" she cried " and Gebir is no more." 



* Bruce mentions the kind of shrub under which 
mostly the cerastes burrows. 

+ The ancients supposed the echinus marinuD oouW 
sink ships by fastening itself to the keel. 



GEBIR, 



113 



SIXTH BOOK. 



Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds 
The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, 
Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand, 
Expanded slow to strains of harmony ; 
The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves 
Glancing with wanton coyness tow'rd their queen 
Heav'd softly ; thus the damsel's bosom heaves 
When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek, 
To which so warily her own she brings 
Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth 
Of coming kisses fann'd by playful Dreams. 
Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. 
For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate. 
When an immortal maid and mortal man 
Should share each other's nature knit in bliss. 

The brave Iberians far the beach o'erspread 
Ere dawn, with distant awe ; none hear the mew, 
None mark the curlew flapping o'er the field; 
Silence held all, and fond expectancy. 
Now suddenly the conch above the sea 
Sounds, and goes sounding thro' the wood pro- 
found. 
They, where they hear the echo, turn their eyes, 
But nothing see they, save a purple mist 
Roll from the distant mountain down the shore: 
It rolls, it sails, it settles, it dissolves . . 
Now shines the Nymph to human eye reveal'd. 
And leads her Tamar timorous o'er the waves. 
Immortals crowding round congratulate 
The shepherd ; he shrinks back, of breath bereft : 
His vesture cUnging closely round his limbs 
Unfelt, while they the whole fair form admire, 
He fears that he has lost it, then he fears 
The wave has mov'd it, most to look he fears. 
Scarce the sweet-flowing music he imbibes, 
Or sees the peopled ocean ; scarce he sees 
Spio with sparkling eyes, and Beroe 
Demure, and young lone, less renown'd. 
Not less divine, mild-natured. Beauty form'd 
Her face, her heart Fidelity ; for Gods 
Design'd, a mortal too lone loved. 
These were the Nymphs elected for the hour 
Of Hesperus and Hymen ; these had strewn 
The bridal bed, these tuned afresh the shells. 
Wiping the green that hoarsen'd them within : 
These wove the chaplets, and at night resolved 
To drive the dolphins from the wreathed door. 
Gebir surveyed the concourse from the tents, 
The Egyptian men around him ; 'twas observ'd 
By those below how wistfully he lookt, 
From what attention with what earnestness 
Now to his city, now to theirs, he waved 
His hand, and held it, while they spake, outspred. 
They tarried with him and they shared the feast. 
They stoopt with trembling hand from heavy jars 
The wines of Gades gurgling in the bowl ; 
Nor bent they homeward til the moon appear'd 
To hang midway betwixt the earth and skies. 
'Twas then that leaning o'er the boy beloved. 
In Ocean's grot where Ocean was unheard, 
"Tamar!" the Nymph said gently, "come 

awake ! 
Enough to love, enough to sleep, is given, 
Haste we away." This Tamar deem'd deceit, 
Spoken so fondly, and he kist her lips, 
Nor blusht he ihen, for be was then unseen. 
15 



But she arising bade the youth arise. 

"What cause to fly ?" said Tamar ; she replied 

" Ask none for flight, and feign none for delay." 

" O am I then deceived ! or am I cast 
From dreams of pleasure to eternal sleep, 
And, when I cease to shudder, cease to be !" 
She held the downcast bridegroom to her breast, 
Lookt in his face and charm'd away his fears. 
She said not " wherefor have I then embraced 
You a poor shepherd, or at most a man, 
Myself a Nymph, that now I should deceive?" 
She said not . . Tamar did, and was ashamed. 
Him overcome her serious voice bespake. 
' ' Grief favours all v.'ho bear the gift of tears ! 
Mild at first sight he meets his votaries 
And casts no shadow as he comes along : 
But after his embrace the marble chills 
The pausing foot, the closing door sounds loud, 
The fiend in triumph strikes the roof, then falls 
The eye uplifted from his lurid shade. 
Tamar, depress thyself, and miseries 
Darken and widen: yes proud hearted man! 
The sea-bird rises as the billows rise ; 
Nor otherwise when mountain floods descend 
Smiles the unsullied lotus glossy-hair'd. 
Thou, claiming all things, leanest on thy claim 
Til overwhelmed thro' incompliancy. 
Tamar, some silent tempest gathers round!" 
"Round whom?" retorted Tamar "thou de 
scribe 
The danger, I will dare it." 

" Who M'ill dare 
What is unseen ?' ' 

" The man that is unblest." 
"But wherefor thou ? It threatens not thyself, 
Nor me, but Gebir and the Gadite host." 

" The more I know, the more a wretch am I,'' 
Groau'd deep the troubled youth, " slil thou 
procede." 
" Oh seek not destin'd evils to divine. 
Found out at last too soon ! cease here the search, 
'Tis vain, 'tis impious, 'tis no gift of mine : 
I will impart far better, will impart 
What makes, when Winter comes, the Sun to rest 
So soon on Ocean's bed his paler brow, 
And Night to tarry so at Spring's return. 
And I will tell sometimes the fate of men 
Who loos'd from drooping neck, the restless arm 
Adventurous, ere long nights had satisfied 
The sweet and honest avarice of love ; 
How whirlpools have absorb'd them, storms o'er- 

whelm'd ; 
And how amid their struggles and their prayers 
The big wave blacken' d o'er the mouth supine : 
Then, when my Tamar trembles at the tale. 
Kissing his lips half open with surprise. 
Glance from the gloomy story, and vriih glee 
Light on the fairer fables of the Gods. 

Thus we may sport at leisure when we go 
Where, loved by Neptune and the Naid. loved 
By pensive Dryad pale, and Oread 
The spritely Nymph whom constant Zephyr vv'oos, 
Rhine rolls his beryl-colour'd wave ; than Rhine 
What river from the mountains ever came 
More stately ! most the simple crown adorns 
Of rushes and of willows intertwined 
With here and there a flower : his lofty brow 
Shaded with vines and mistleto and oak 



114 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



He rears, and mystic bards his fame resound. 
Or gliding opposite, th' Illyrian gulf 
Will harbour us from ill." While thus he spake. 
She toucht his eyelashes with libant lip, 
And breath'd ambrosial odours, o'er his cheek 
Celestial warmth suffusing: grief dispersed. 
And strength and pleasure beam'd upon his brow, 
Then pointed she before him : first arose 
To his astonisht and delighted view 
The sacred ile that shrines the queen of love. 
It stood so near him, so acute each sense, 
That not the symphony of lutes alone 
Or coo serene or billing strife of doves, 
But murmurs, v/hispers, nay the very sighs 
Which he himself had utter'd once, he heard. 
Next, but long after and far off, appear 
The cloudlike clifis and thousand towers of Crete, 
And further to the right, the Cyclades : 
Phcebus had rais'd and fixt them, to surround 
His native Delos and aerial fane. 
He saw the land of Pelops, host of Gods, 
Saw the steep ridge where Corinth after stood 
Beckoning the serious with the smiling Arts 
Into the sunbright bay ; unborn the maid 
That to assure the bent-up hand unskill'd 
Lookt oft, but oftener fearing who might wake. 
He heard the voice of rivers ; he descried 
Pindan Peneus and the slender Nymphs 
That tread his banks but fear the thundering tide ; 
These, and Amphrysos and Apidanus 
And poplar-crown'd Spercheus, and reclined 
On restless rocks Enipeus, where the winds 
Scatter' d above the weeds his hoary hair. 
Then, with Pirene and with Panope, 
Evenus, troubled from paternal tears, 
And last was Achelous, king of isles. 
Zacynthus here, above rose Ithaca, 
Like a blue bubble floating in the bay. 
Far onward to the left a glimm'ring light 
Glanced out oblique, nor vanisht ; he inquired 
Whence that arose, his consort thus replied. 
' Behold the vast Eridanus ! ere long 
We may again behold him and rejoice. 
Of noble rivers none with mightier force 
Rolls his unwearied torrent to the main." 
And now Sicanian Etna rose to view : 
Darkness with light more horrid she confounds, 
Baffles the breath and dims the sight of day. 
Tamar grew giddy with astonishment 
And, looking up, held fast the bridal vest ; 
He heard the roar above him, heard the roar 
Beneath, and felt it too, as he beheld, 
Hurl, from Earth's base, rocks, mountains, to the 
skies. 

Meanwhile the Nymph had fixt her eyes beyond. 
As seeing somewhat, not intent on aught. 
He, more amazed than ever, then exclamed 

" Is there another flaming ile ? or this 
Illusion, thus past over unobserved ?" 

"Look yonder" cried the Nymph, without 
reply, 
" Look yonder !" Tamar lookt, and saw afar 
Where the waves whiten'd on the desert shore. 
When from amid grey ocean first he caught 
The hights of Calpe, sadden'd he exclamed, 
" Rock of Iberia ! fixt hy Jove and hung 
With all his thunder-bearing clouds, I hail 
Thy ridges rough and cheerless ! what tho' Spring 



Nor kiss thy brow nor cool it with a flower, 
Yet will I hail thee, hail thy flinty couch 
Where Valour and where Virtue have reposed." 

The Nymph said, sweetly smiHng " Fickle Man 
Would not be happy could he not regret ! 
And I confess how, looking back, a thought 
Has toucht and tun'd or rather thrill' d my heart, 
Too soft for sorrow and too strong for joy : 
Fond foolish maid, 'twas with mine own accord 
It sooth'dme, shook me, melted, drown'd, in tears. 
But weep not thou ; what cause hast thou to weep ? 
Would' St thou thy country ? would' st those caves 

abhorr'd. 
Dungeons and portals that exclude the day ? 
Gebir, tho' generous, just, humane, inhaled 
Rank venom from these mansions. Rest O King 
In Egypt thou ! nor, Tamar ! pant for sway. 
With horrid chorus. Pain, Diseases, Death, 
Stamp on the slippery pavement of the proud. 
And ring their sounding emptiness thro' earth. 
Possess the ocean, me, thyself, and peace." 

And now the chariot of the Sun descends. 
The waves rush hurried from his foaming steeds, 
Smoke issues from their nostrils at the gate. 
Which when they enter, with huge golden bar 
Atlas and Calpe close across the sea. 



SEVENTH BOOK. 

What mortal first by adverse fate assail'd, 
Trampled by tyranny or scoft by scorn. 
Stung by remorse or wrung by poverty, 
Bade with fond sigh his native land farewell ? 
Wretched ! but tenfold wretched who resolv'd 
Against the waves to plunge th' expatriate keel 
Deep with the richest harvest of his land ! 

Driven with that weak blast which Winter leaves 
Closing his palace-gates on Caucasus, 
Oft hath a berry risexi forth a shade ; 
From the same parent plant another lies 
Deaf to the daily call of weary hind ; 
Zephyrs pass by and laugh at his distress. 
By every lake's and every river's side 
The nymphs and Naids teach Equality ; 
In voices gently querulous they ask, 
" Who would with aching head and toiling arms 
Bear the full pitcher to the stream far off? 
Who would, of power intent on high emprise, 
Deem, less the praise to fill the vacant gulf 
Then raise Charybdis upon Etna's brow ?" 
Amid her darkest caverns most retired, 
Nature calls forth her filial elements 
To close around and crush that monster Void : 
Fire, springing fierce from his resplendent throne, 
And Water, dashing the devoted wretch 
Woundless and whole with iron-colour'd mace. 
Or whirling headlong in his war-belt's fold. 
Mark well the lesson, man ! and spare thy kind. 
Go, from their midnight darkness wake the woods, 
Woo the lone forest in her last retreat : 
Many stil bend their beauteous heads unblest 
And sigh aloud for elemental man. 
Thro' palaces and porches evil eyes 
Light upon e'en the wretched, who have fled 
The house of bondage or the house of birth ; 
Suspicions, murmurs, treacheries, taunts, retorts, 



GEBIR. 



115 



Attend the brighter banners that invade ; 
And the first horn of hunter, pale with want, 
Sounds to the chase, the second to the war. 

The long awaited day at last arrived, 
When, linkt together by the seven-arm'd Nile, 
Egypt with proud Iberia should unite. 
Here the Tartesian, there the Gadite tents 
Rang with impatient pleasure : here engaged 
V/oody Nebrissa's quiver-bearing crew. 
Contending warm with amicable skill ; 
While they of Durius raced along the beach 
And scatter'd mud and jeers on all behind. 
The strength of Bjetis too removed the helm 
And stript the corslet off, and stauncht the foot 
Against the mossy maple, while they tore 
Their quivering lances from the hissing wound. 
Others push forth the prows of their compeers, 
And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak, 
Swells up the sides, and closes far astern: 
The silent oars now dip their level wings, 
And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave. 
Others, afraid of tardiness, return : 
Now, entering the still harbour, every surge 
Runs with a louder murmur up their keel, 
And the slack cordage rattles round the mast. 
Sleepless with pleasure and expiring fears 
Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn. 
And o'er the plains appointed for the feast > 
Hurried with ardent step : the swains admired 
What so tranversely could have swept the dew; 
For never long one path had Gebir trod. 
Nor long, unheeding man, one pace preserved. 
Not thus Charoba : she despair' d the day : 
The day was present ; true; yet she despair'd. 
In the too tender and once tortured heart 
Doubts gather strength from habit, like disease ; 
Fears, like the needle verging to the pole. 
Tremble and tremble into certainty. 
How often, when her maids with merry voice 
Call'd her, and told the sleepless queen 'twas 

morn, 
How often would she feign some fresh delay, 
And tell 'em (tho' they saw) that she arose. 
Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors 
A bath of purest marble, purest wave, 
On its fair surface bore its pavement high : 
Arabian gold enchased the crystal roof, 
With fluttering boys adorn'd and girls unrobed : 
These, when you touch the quiet v/ater, start 
From their aerial sunny arch, and pant 
Entangled mid each other's flowery wreaths, 
And each pursuing is in turn pursued. 

Here came at last, as ever wont at morn, 
Charoba: long she linger'd at the brink. 
Often she sighed, and, naked as she was. 
Sat dov/n, and leaning on the couchis edge. 
On the soft inward pillow of her arm 
Rested her burning cheek : she moved her eyes ; 
She blusht ; and blushing plunged into the wave. 
Now brazen chariots thunder thro' each street. 
And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay. 
While o'er the palace breathes the dulcimer, 
Lute, and aspiring harp, and hsping reed ; 
Loud rush the trumpets bursting thro' the throng 
And urge the high-shoulder'd vulgar; now are 

heard 
Curses and quarrels and constricted blows, 
Threats and defiance and subitrban war. 



Hark ! the reiterated clangour sounds ! 
Now murmurs, like the sea or hke the storm 
Or like the flames on forests, move and mount 
From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll. 
Til ail the people is one vast applause. 
Yes, 'tis herself, Charoba . . now the strife 
To see again a form so often seen ! 
Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, 
Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again ? 
Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight 
To reproduce in hour of bitterness ? 
She goes, the king awaits her from the camp: 
Him she descried, and trembled ere he reacht 
Her car, but shudder'd paler at his voice. 
So the pale silver at the festive board 
Grows paler fiU'd afresh and dew'd with wine ; 
So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring 
To whiten, bending from a balmy gale. 
The beauteous queen alighting he received. 
And sighed to loose her from his arms ; she hung 
A httle longer on them thro' her fears : 
Her maidens followed her, and one that watcht, 
One that had call'd her in the morn, observ'd 
How virgin passion with unfuel'd flame 
Burns into whiteness, while the blushing cheek 
Imagination heats and Shame imbues. 
Between both nations drawn in ranks they 
pass : 
The priests, with linen ephods, linen robes. 
Attend their steps, some follow, some precede, 
Where cloath'd with purple intertwined with gold 
Two lofty thrones commanded land and main. 
Behind and near them numerous were the tents 
As freckled clouds o'erfloat our vernal skies. 
Numerous as v/ander in warm moonlight nights. 
Along Meander's or Cayster's marsh. 
Swans pliant-neckt and village storks revered. 
Throughout each nation moved the hum confused, 
Like that from myriad wings o'er Scythian cups 
Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood. 
Throughout the fields the savoury smoke ascends, 
And boughs and branches shade the hides un- 

broacht. 
Some roll the flowery turf into a seat. 
And others press the helmet . . now resounds 
The signal ! . . queen and monarch mount the 

thrones. 
The brazen clarion hoarsens : many leagues 
Above them, many to the south, tihe hern 
Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretcht, 
Plows up the silvering surface of her plain. 

Tottering vv'ith age's zeal and mischiefs haste 
Now was discover'd Dalica ; she reacht 
The throne, she leant against the pedestal, 
And now ascending stood before the king. 
Prayers for his health and safely she prefer'd, 
And o'er his head and o'er his feet she threw 
Myrrh, nard, and cassia, from three golden urns; 
His robe of native woof she next removed, \ 

And round his shoulders drew the garb accurst, 
And bow'd her head and parted : soon the queen 
Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks. 
And fear'd, and faltering sought her lost replies, 
And blest the silence that she wisht were broke. 
Alas ! unconscious maiden ! night shall close, 
And love and sovranty and life dissolve. 
And Egypt be one desert drencht in blood. 
When thunder overhangs the fountain's head, 



116 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Losing its wonted freshness every stream 
Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused : 
Thus were the brave Iberians when they saw 
The king of nations from his throne descend. 
Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved, 
Reacht he the waters : in his troubled ear 
They sounded murmuring drearily ; they rose 
Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes ; 
They seem'd to rush around him, seem'd to lift 
From the receding earth his helpless feet. 
He fell . . Charoba shriekt aloud . . she ran . . 
Frantic with fears and fondness, mazed with woe. 
Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld. 
The turban that betray'd its golden charge 
Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung, 
All fallen at her feet ! the ntrthest wave 
Creeping with silent progress up the sand, 
Glided thro' all, and rais'd their hollow folds. 
In vain they bore him to the sea, in vain 
Rub'd they his temples with the briny warmth : 
He struggled from them, strong with agony. 
He rose half up, he fell again, he cried 
" Charoba ! Charoha .'" She embraced 
His neck, and raising on her knee one arm, 
Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shriekt. 
And clasping loud both hands above her head. 
She call'd on Gebir, call'd on earth, on heaven. 
' ' Who will believe me ? what shall I protest ? 
How innocent, thus wretched ! God of Gods, 
Strike me . . vs^ho most offend thee most defy . . 
Charoba most offends thee . . strike me, hurl 
From this accursed land, this faithless throne. 
O Dalica ! see here the royal feast I 
See here the gorgeous robe ! you Httle thought 
How have the demons dyed that robe with death. 
Where are ye, dear fond parents ! when ye heard 
My feet in childhood pat the palace-floor. 
Ye started forth and kist away surprise : 
Will ye now meet me ! how, and where, and 

when ? 

And must I fill your bosoni with my tears, 
And, what I never have done, with your own ! 
Why have the Gods thus punisht me ? what harm 
Have ever I done them ? have I profaned 
Their temples, askt too little, or too much ? 
Proud if they granted, griev'd if they witheld? 
O mother ! stand between your child and them ! 
Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge, 
Melt thena to pity with maternal tears . . 
Alas, but if you cannot I they themselves 
Will then want pity rather than your child. 
O Gebir ! best of monarchs, best of men. 
What realm hath ever thy firm even hand 
Or lost by feebleness or held by force 1 
Behold thy cares and perils how repaid ! 
Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour !" 

Thus raved Charoba: horrour, grief, amaze, 
Pervai^L -i all the host ; all eyes were fixt : 
All stricken motionless and mute : the feast 
Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword 
Of Pfiineus, white with wonder, shook restrain'd, 
And the hilt rattled in his marble hand. 
She heard not, saw not, every sense was gone ; 
One passion banisht all ; dominion, praise. 
The world itself was nothing. Senseless man ! 
What would thy fancy figure now from worlds ? 
There is no world to those that grieve and love. 
She hung upon his bosom, prest his lips. 



Breath'd, and would feign it his that she re- 

sorbed. 
She chafed the feathery softness of his vems, 
That swell'd out black, like tendrils round theh 

vase 
After libation : lo ! he moves ! he groans ! 
He seems to struggle from the grasp of death. 
Charoba shriekt and fell away, her hand 
Stil clasping his, a sudden blush o'erspred 
Her pallid humid cheek, and disappear' d. 
'Twas not the blush of shame . . what shame has 

woe? . . 
'Twas not the genuine ray of hope, it flasht 
With shuddering glimmer thro' unscatter' d clouds, 
It flasht from passions rapidly opposed. 

Never so eager, when the world was waves, 
Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried 
(Innocent this temptation !) to recall 
With folded vest and casting arm the dove ; 
Never so fearful, when amid the vines 
Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven 
Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first echpst. 
As she was eager for his Hfe's return. 
As she was fearfiil how his groans might end. 
They ended ; cold and languid calm succedes ; 
His eyes have lost their luster, but his voice 
Is not unheard, tho' short : he spake these 

words. 
" And weepest thou, Charoba ! shedding tears 
More precious than the jewels that surround 
The neck of kings entom'd ! then weep, fair queen, 
At once thy pity and my pangs assuage. 
Ah ! what is grandour, glory . . they are past ! 
When nothing else, not life itself, remains, 
Stil the fond mourner may be call'd our own. 
Should I complain of Fortune ? how she errs, 
Scattering her bounty upon barren ground, 
Slow to allay the lingering thirst of toil ? 
Fortune, 'tis true, may err, may hesitate, 
Death follows close nor hesitates nor errs. 
I feel the stroke ! I die !" He would extend 
His dying arm, it fell upon his breast : 
Cold sweat and shivering ran o'er every limb 
His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired. 



GUNLAUG. 



Sophia, pity Gunlaug's fate. 
Perfidious friendship, worse than hate, 
And love, whose smiles are often vain. 
Whose frowns are never, were his bane. 
For war his rising spirit sigh'd 
In unknown realms o'er ocean wide. 

" Illugi, father, let me go, 
I burn to meet my country's foe." 

" A blessing, Gunlaug, on thy head 1" 
The fond afflicted father said. 
" Go when invader comes to spoil 
Our verdant Iceland's native soil: 
But wait with patient zeal til then 
And learn the deeds of mightier men." 

To Thorstein's house, whose daring prow 
Thro' ocean pounced upon his foe. 



GUNLAUG. 



117 



Stung with denial, Gunlaug went, 
But breathed no word of discontent. 

" Thorstein," he cried, " I leave my home. 
Yet not for shelter am I come ; 
Thorstein, I come to learn of thee 
The dangers of the land and sea. 
Speed thee ! together let us go, 
And Thorstein's shall be Gunlaug's foe." 

■'Brave youth," said Thorstein, " stay awhile . . 
I love too well my native isle ; 
Whether the sandy dog-rose blows 
Or sparkle fierce the starry snows; 
And never shall this hand again 
Direct the rudder o'er the main." 

Thus as he spake, he would have prest 
The hand of his aspiring guest : 
But Gunlaug cried, " I will not here 
Partake thy hospitable cheer : 
For war's, for danger's gifts I came. 
Keep thou thy fears, leave me thy fame." 

Aloud the manly veteran laught ; 
" Come ! come !" said he, " one social draught ! 
My fears I'll keep that none shall see, 
And I will leave my fame to thee." 

Out sprang the tears from Gunlaug's eyes : 
" noble Thorstein, bold and wise ! 
Shall Gunlaug dare to tarry here ? 
Shall Helga see this blush, this tear ?" 

At Helga's and her father's name. 
The beauteous blue-eyed virgin came, 
No word had then the youth to say, 
But turn'd his downcast face away. 
He heard her sandal sip the floor, 
And ere she reacht the palace-door. 
His heaving bosom could not brook 
Reproach or wonder from her look. 

And couldst thou, Gunlaug, thus refrain 
And seek'st thou conquests o'er the main? 

She saw, but knew not his distress. 
And eyed him much, nor loved him less. 
Long stood, and longer v/ould have staid 
The tender-hearted blue-eyed maid : 
But fear her stifling throat opprest. 
And something smote her bounding breast. 
Far off, alone, she would remain. 
But thought it time to turn again. 
" Yet better not perhaps," she thought, 
" For fear the stranger hold me naught. 
I dare not wish, they call it sin, 
But . . would my father bring him in !" 

He came ; their friendship grew ; he woo'd ; 
Nor Helga's gentle heart withstood. 
Her milk-white rabbit oft he fed. 
And crumbled fine his breakfast-bread ; 
And oft explored, with anxious view, 
Spots where the crispest parsley grew. 
Her restive horse he daily rid, 
And quite subdued her stubborn kid. 
Who lately dared to quit her side. 
And once with painful rashness tried 
Its ruddy horn against her knee. 
Bold as its desp'rate sire could be. 
Mosses he knew of every race. 
And brought them from their hiding-place. 
And mingled every sweet-soul' d plant 
On mountain-top, or meadow slant. 
And checker' d (while they flowered) her room 
With purple thyme and yellow broom. 



There is a creature, dear to heaven, 
Tiny and weak, to whom is given 
To enjoy the world while suns are bright 
And shut grim winter from its sight . . 
Tamest of hearts that beat on wilds, 
Tamer and tenderer than a child's . . 
The dormouse . . this he loved and taught 
(Docile it is the day it's caught, 
And fond of music, voice or string) 
To stand before and hear her sing, 
Or lie within her palin half-closed. 
Until another's interposed. 
And claim'd the alcove wherinit lay. 
Or held it with divided sway. 

All living things are ministers « 

To him whose hand attunes the spheres 
And guides a thousand worlds, and binds 
(Work for ten godheads !) female minds. 
I know not half the thoughts that rose. 
Like tender plants neath vernal snows, 
In Helga's breast, and, if I knew, 
I would draw forth but very few. 
Yet, when the prayers were duly said 
And rightly blest the marriage-bed, 
She doubted not that Heaven would give 
To her as pretty things as live. 

The cautious father long delay 'd 
The wishes of the youth and maid. 
His patient hand, like her's, unrolls 
The net to catch the summer shoals; 
And both their daily task compare. 
And daily win each other's hair. 
One morn, arising from her side, 
He, as he paid the forfeit, cried, 
" Behold my hair too trimly shine, 
Behold my hands are white as thine. 

! could I loose our blissis bar ! 

1 burn for wedlock and for war." 

" For war," said she, " when lovers bum, 
To wedlock, Gunlaug, few return. 
In Samsa brave Hialmar lies. 
Nor Inga's daughter closed his eyes. 
By sixteen wounds of raging fire 
The enchanted sword of Angantyre, 
Withering, laid waste his fruitless bloom, 
And housed the hero in the tomb. 
Oh Oddur, said the dying chief. 
Take off my ring, my time is brief; 
My ring, if smaller, might adorn 
The plighted hand of Ingebiom. 
Swift to Sigtuna flew the friend, 
And sorely wept Hialmar's end. 
By Maeleren's blue lake he found 
The virgin sitting on the ground. 
A garment for her spouse she wove, 
And sang Ah speed thee, gift of love ! 
In anguish Oddur heard her shig. 
And turn'd his face and held the ring. 
Back fell the maiden ; well she knew 
What fatal tidings must enstie ; ,% 

When Oddur raised her, back she fell. 
And died, the maiden loved so well. 
NoxD gladly, swore the generous chief, 
I witness death beguiling grief; 
I never thought to smile again 
By thy blue waters, Mmleren ! 
But grant that on the hostile strand 
Thy bosom meet no biting brand, 



118 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Grant that no swift unguarded dart 
Lay thee beneath the flooded thwart,* 
Yet how unHke a nuptial day, 
To stand amid the hissing spray, 
And wipe and wipe its tinghng brine, 
And vainly bhnk thy peUed eyn. 
And feel their stiffening lids weigh' d down 
By toil no pleasure comes to crown ! 
Say, Gunlaug, wouldst thou give for this 
The fire-side feast and bridal kise ?" 

He told the father what he said, 
And what rephed the willing maid, 

" My son," said Thorstein, " now I find 
Wavering with love the sea-bound mind. 
Away to war, if war delight. 
Begone three years from Helga's sight: 
And if perchance at thy return 
That breast with equal transport burn, 
Its wishes I no more confine . . 
Thine is my house, my Helga thine." 

Away the tow' ring warrior flew. 
Nor bade his Helga once adieu. 
He felt the manly sorrows rise, 
And open'd wide his gushing eyes ; 
He stopt a moment in the hall, 
Stil the too pow'rful tears would fall. 
He would have thought his fate accurst 
To meet her as he met her first, 
So, madly swang the sounding door, 
And reacht, and reaching left, the shore. 

Three years in various toils had past, 
And Gunlaug hasten'd home at last. 
Rafen at Upsal he had seen, 
Of splendid wit and noble mien: 
Rafen with pleasure he beheld, 
For each in arms and verse excell'd. 
Rafen he heard from sun to sun, 
And why? their native land was one. 

friends I mark here how friendships end ! 
O lovers ! never trust a friend ! 

In fulness of his heart he told 
What treasures would his arms enfold ; 
How in the summer he should share 
The blissful bed of maid so fair. 
For, as suspicion ne'er supprest 
One transport of his tuneful breast, 
The low and envious he past by 
With scornful or unseeing eye : 
From tales alone their guile he knew, 
Believing all around him true. 
And fancying falsehood flourisht then, 
When earth produced two-headed men. 

In Sweden dwell the manliest race 
That brighten earth's maternal face: 
Yet never would proud Gunlaug yield 
To any man in any field. 
The day was fixt for his return, 
And crowding friends around him burn 
Their pomp and prowess to display, 
And celebrate the parting day. 
Amid them up a wrestler stood 
And call'd to wrestle him who wou'd. 
So still were all, you might have heard 
The motion of the smallest bird : 
Some lookt, some turn'd away the eye, 
Not one among them dared reply. 



* A thwart is a bench for rowers. 



" Come hither, friend!" said Gunlaug bold, 
" O ; ne'er in Iceland lie il told 
I stood amid the feast defied. 
Nor skill nor strength nor courage tried." 

The wrestler then beheld and smiled, 
And answer' d thus in accent mild : 
" O stranger! tho' thy heart be stout, 
And none like thee sit roimd about. 
Thou bringest to unequall'd might 
A form too beauteous and too slight." 

" Well, friend, however that may be. 
Let Gunlaug try his strength with thee." 

They closed ; they struggled ; nought avail'd 
The wrestler's skill, his prowess fail'd. 
One leg he moved a httle back 
And sprang again to the attack. 
Gunlaug, in trying to elude 
A shock so sudden and so rude. 
Avoided half the whelming weight, 
But slipt aside, alas ! too late. 
His combatant flew with him past, 
Yet round his neck one arm he cast, 
And threw him headlong on the ground, 
Wounded, but with no warrior's wound. 
The grass and springing flow'rs amid 
A rotten pointed stake was hid. 
Swung by the rapid jerk in air, 
His nervous leg descended there. 
When Rafen saw the spouting blood 
Bewilder' d in new joy he stood. 
And scarce his features could controul 
The rapture of a selfish soul, 
Yet tended ev'ry day his couch 
And emptied there the hawking-pouch. 
And brought him game from lake and land 
And fed the falcon on his hand. 

" Go, haste" said Gunlaug " haste, my friend, 
May peace and love thy steps attend. 
Ah wretched ! thus to stay alone ! 
Ere the day fixt I too am gone. 
How far more wretched should I be 
If my sweet Helga mourn'd for me." 

When twice the sabbath-day had past, ■ 
Rafen, as one compell'd at last 
By his impatient listeners, said . . 
And lower'd his voice and shook his head . . 

" Gunlaug unwillingly I left 
Of reason as of love bereft. 
At Upsal, famed for damsels bright 
Andflatter'd wit's bewildering light; 
Him courts and pleasures yet detain, 
And Helga's charms have charm'd in vain." 

" Accursed man !" the father cried, 
" My Helga ne'er shall be his bride." 

" O father !" " Peace !" cried he, " I swear, 
Deluded Helga, thou shall ne'er." 

A swoon her swelling bosom smote, 
And serpents seem'd to clasp her throat, 
And underneath the father's chair 
Stream' d on his dog her auburn hair. 
Then Rafen raised her in his arms, 
And gazed and gloated on her charms. 

" Gaze: she is thine," said Thorstein fierce, 
"If she be Gunlaug' s 'tis in verse." 

She wept all night ; her woe increast 
When in the morn she saw the priest. 

O " father ! pause to break my vow . . 
I know his heart . . ah ! could' st but thou ! 



GUNLAUG 



119 



By all divine, all human laws, 
Kindest and best of fathers, pause. 
If Rafen loves, he loves the dead, 
I live not for his hated bed." 

At early dawn the youth she lost 
Arrived upon his native coast. 
Blessing his fortune to survive, 
And on the appointed day arrive, 
He hung around his father's neck 
And groan' d the thoughts he could not speak ; 
And as his neck he hung around 
The father's tears dropt o'er the wound. 
The servants came with anxious heed. 
And brought their lord the luscious mead, 
Pray'd not to issue forth so soon, 
But eat and drink and sleep till noon ; 
And mention' d other valiant lords 
Who dozed thus long upon their swords, 
Yet ne'er had suffer'd gash nor prick, 
Nor bruise, unless from hazel-stick. 
He was persuaded ; for his brain 
Floated in firy floods of pain, 
From hopes, three long years afloat. 
Now, by one evil turn, remote. 
He was persuaded ; for he knew 
Whose was of all true hearts most true. 
Then strew' d he bear-skins on the stone, 
And bade the tardy men begone. 
The servants watch his eyelids close, 
They watch the flush of bland repose, 
They raise his shaggy pillow high'r, 
With tender caution trim the fire. 
And (for his breath might be opprest) 
Pick out the pine-tree from the rest, 
And fan the flame, nor fear the smoke 
From ash well-dried and shipwreck oak. 
A frolic maid was passing by. 
And, as she saw the hero lie, 
His arms and armour thrown around, 
Upon the bench, the couch, the ground. 
Removed the chnking hawberk mail, 
And took a wolf-skin from a nail ; 
Across his throat she placed the teeth 
And tuckt the clasping claws beneath. 
And would have kist him, but she fear'd 
To tickle with her breast his beard. 

Sound was his sleep ; at length he woke. 
And thus, in hurried accent, spoke. 

" What means, my men, the noise I hear ? 
Nearer the window . . still more near. 
Despach . . I feel no pain . . despach . . 
Why look upon that idle scratch ? 
Ay, Rafen and his friends are come, 
I know, to bid me welcome home. 
Oft has he trod the sunless dew. 
And hail'd at last my bark in view. 

Rafen, my best friend, for this 
Shall Helga give thy brow a kiss." 

Then in rusht Thorkell " Stay thee, lord ! 
Nor blast thee at the sight abhorr'd. 

1 thought that heaven could send no curse 
Like slighted love ; it sends a worse. 
Now is my joy what was my pain. 

To find so soon I loved in vain. 
Rafen leads homeward from the shrine 
Thy Helga . . for her heart is thine." 

Gunlaug with pleasure heard him speak. 
And smiles relumed his faded cheek. 



Thorkell, who watcht him all the while, 
With more than wonder saw him smile. 
" Thorkell, I thank thee," he replied, 
What, have vv'e both, then, lost the bride? 
No, generous rival, neither quite 
Hath understood the nuptial rite. 
Rafen leads homeward from the shrine 
My Helga, for her heart is mine." 

Then Thorkell shook his head and sigh'd, 
" 111 the suspicious soul betide ! 
But he whom no suspicions move. 
Loves not, or with ill-omen'd love. 
These eyes, that yet in wonder swim, 
Saw the fair Helga sworn to him." 

His horror Gunlaug could not check, 
But threw his arm round Thorkell's neck. 
" O loose me, let me fall, my friend. 
Cried he, " let life and sorrow end." 
Now rage, now anguish, seized his soul, 
Now love again resumed the whole ; 
Now would he upon Helga' s name 
Pour vengeance ; tears for vengeance came. 
" Thorkell, two days alone I wait. 
The third shall close with Rafen's fate. 
I scorn to stay for strength restored . . 
Go . . at the corner whet my sword." 

On the third morn their friends decreed 
That one or both of them should bleed. 
On the third morn what pangs opprest 
The tender lover's valiant breast ! 
His only hope on earth below 
To die, and dying slay the foe. 
He slept not, nor had ever slept 
Since the first day, but said, and wept . . 

" Arouse thee, Gunlaug, why complaint 
She never can be thine again ! 
The bark shall lean upon the shore, 
Nor wave dash off the rested oar : 
The flowers shall ope their sparkling eyes, 
And dance in robes of richest dyes. 
And, flying back, again shall meet 
The south-wind's kisses, soft and sweet: 
Young eagles build their first fond nest, 
And sink from rapine into rest : 
Ah, see them soar above my head ! 
Their hopes are come, but mine are fled ! 
Arouse thee, Gunlaug, haste away, 
And rush into the mortal fray." 

From far the hstening Rafen heard 
His rival's armour ring, nor fear'd. 
Fear may be stifled in the breast. 
But shame burns fiercer when supprest. 
Onward he rusht and dared defy 
His arm, but dared not meet his eye. 
Madly he struck and bUnd with guilt, 
And his blade shiver' d from the hilt. 
O'er Gunlaug' s shield with action weak 
It fell, and falling razed his cheek. 
Away disdainful Gunlaug turn'd. 
And cried, while rage within him burnt, 
" Rafen, take up thy broken sword ; 
Live ; see thou Helga be restored. 
Ah, why ?" then to himself he said ; 
" O Helga, beauteous blue-eyed maid! 
Sure were the tender words of yore. 
Ah, never can I speak them more ! 
By Rafen's side hath Helga slept, 
Upon my fruit the snail hath crept. 



120 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDO 



The blindworm hath his poison shed . . 
Rafen ! curses on thy head." 

Afar was he as Gunlaug spoke, 
And every tie of honour broke. 
Before the court of chieftains old 
He stood, and well his story told : 
Much for religion and for laws 
He pled, and bade them guard his cause : 
" Though baffled and disarm' d," he cried, 
" I gave the wound, and claim the bride."* 

Some with disdain his reasons heard, 
While others wisht the cause deferr'd. 
Then Ormur spake, in speech of scorn, 
Ormur the friend of Asbiorn, 
Who, daring singly to engage 
A jotun,t proved his fatal rage. 

" Go, finish this unmanly strife, 
And keep the vow, but quit the wife. 
So neither party shall repine. 
But love be his, and laws be thine. 
Go home, and with the world's applause 
There quaintly kiss the cold-lip laws.". 

But Rafen, when he saw the sneer 
Run dimpling on from peer to peer, 
" Has not the priest then join'd our hands 
In holy everlasting bands ? 
One would have thought 'twas thee I wrong'd, 
Right second to the viper-tongued." t 

The assembly, wishing to compose 
The strife of single combat, rose ; 
But order' d first that none decide 
His right by arms o'er Iceland wide. 

"In Auxar then once more we meet. 
And thou shalt never thence retreat," 
Swore vahant Gunlaug, when he heard 
The suit that Rafen had preferr'd. 
" Thy courage shall not screen thy guile. 
When once we meet in Auxar's isle." 

Urged by his friends, as by his foe, 
Again to fight must Rafen go. 
But furious winds each pinnance drove 
Past little Auxar's lonely cove. 
Beyond the strait, their anchors bit 
The yellovv sand of Agnafit, 
Where Inga reign'd, whose daughter's fate 
Gunlaug heard Helgaonce relate. 



* According to the laws of duel in Iceland, he who 
gave^he first wound was gainer of the suit. 

I- •■'■M jotun." The jotuns were giants : their exist- 
ence is not fabulous. In the north at all times have 
existed men of enormous stature. V/e ourselves have 
seen them from Ireland ; our fathers have seen them, 
our children will see them. That the number was 
much greater formerly cannot be doubted ; but it must 
always have been very disproportionate to that of or- 
dinary men. These would fear them, lie in ambush 
for them, persecute thsm, and, whenever they could 
do it with advantage, combat them, until, where their 
numbers once were formidable, not a single one re- 
mained. Where they were fewer, as they were in 
Ireland, their alliance would rather be sought against 
a common enemy, and they would be objects more of 
curiosity than of terror. In peaceful times their stature 
and strength would, after a few generations, diminish 
from inactivity ; and mothers at last would produce 
creatures of nearly or quite the common size ; yet oc- 
casionally one resembling the old stock would reappear. 
X Orrastunga. Gunlaug was called so, from the 
sharpness of his satire. 



Here too the wise aiid old impede 
The brave in lawless fray to bleed. 
By Sota's shore their course they take 
And anchor near Dyngiuiies lake. 
There spred the heath its evener ground. 
And purer water there was found. 
They meet ; and all their friends unite 
In the full fury of the fight, 
'Till with the champions none remain 
But the sore wounded on the plain. 
The chiefs had closed, nor space was now 
That either urge the deadly blow ; 
But oft they struggle, breast to breast. 
Oft give, unwilling, mutual rest. 
Gunlaug with desperate strain recoil'd, 
Yet his free force and aim were foil'd; 
Else had his sword athwart the side 
Of Rafen oped life's sluices wide. 
The foot he struck, so far he sprung, 
The foot upon its tendon hung : 
He stagger' d : just within his reach 
Stood, chosen for the shade, a beech: 
He shrunk against it, and his foot 
Was resting on the twisted root. 
" Now yield thee," loud the hero cried, 
" Yield ; and resign the blooming bride." 

" True, on these terms we fought before," 
Said he, " but now we fight for more. 
This day life only shall suffice. 
And, Gunlaug, he who kills not, dies. 
Life yet is left me, and the worst 
I suffer now, is fainting thirst." 
Eager the combat to renew. 
Fast to the lake then Gunlaug flew, 
There from his neck the helm unbraced. 
Nor, though he thirsted, staid to taste : 
Prone, and on tottering knee, he stoopt, 
With vigorous arm the surface scoopt, 
And swiftly to his rival bore 
The clear cold water, running o'er. 
By treachery yet untaught to doubt. 
With his right arm he held it out. ^ 

Valour and praise and pride forsook 
The soul of Rafen, fierce he strook 
His generous rival's naked head, 
And (for the dying are not dead) 
Gunlaug was fell'd ; the unsated foe 
Strove hard to follow up the blow: 
His foot denies his deadly hate, 
And doubt and horror round him wait. 

Gunlaug pusht faintly from his breast 
The shield that struggling hfe opprest. 
The gales that o'er Dyngiunes play 
Recall his roving soul today. 
Up would he start ; his wound denies ; 
Fresh shadows float before his eyes: 
On his right elbow now he leans ; 
Now brighten the surrounding scenes : 
Trees, mountains, skies, no more are mixt; 
The lake, and earth, and foe, stand fixt. 
His silence then he sternly broke, 
And thus, his eye on Rafen, spoke. 
" Rafen, whh powers renew'd I rise : 
Yes, traitor ! he who kills not, dies. 
Yet would I leave a little space, 
To hear thee own this deed was base." 

Now first in speech was Rafen slow . . 
Wrung with remorse and weak with woe, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



121 



He nxt his eyes upon the ground, 
And thus confest, in faltering sound. 
" 'Twas base: but how could Rafen bear 
That Gunlaug be to Helga dear?" 

Paus'd had the conqueror: he had stood 
And slowly waped the welling blood, 
With patience, pity, grief, had heard, 
And had but Rafen spared that word, 
His youthful head had not lain low . . 
Gunlaug scarce felt the fatal blow ; 
But hearing how could Rafen hear 
That Gunlaug he to Helga dear ! 
Rage swell'd his heart and fired his eye, 
And thro' the forest rang the cry, 
" What ! tho' thy treachery caught her vow, 
God's vengeance! Rafen! e'er wert thou?" 
Then hatred rising high with pain, 
He smote the traitor's helm in twain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



CLIFTON. 

Cliftoj?) in vain thy varied scenes invite, 
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight; 
The sheep that, starting from the tufted thyme, 
Untune the distant churchis mellow chime ; 
As o'er each limb a gentle horrour creeps. 
And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps. 
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
While hght and darkness seize the changeful oar; 
The frolic Naids drawing from below 
A net of silver round the black canoe. 
Now the last lonely solace must it be 
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea, 
Then johi my friends and let those friends believe 
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve. 



TO lANTHE, 



While the winds whistle round my cheerless 

room, 
And the pale morning droops with winter's 

gloom ; 
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, 
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands ; 
Alone, and destitute of every page 
That fires the poet, or informs the sage. 
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove. 
Rest upon past or cherish promist love ? 
Alas ! the past I never can regain, 
Wishes may rise and tears may flow in vain. 
Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom. 
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. 
What then would passion, what would reason, 

do? 
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue. 
Here will I sit, till heaven shall cease to lour. 
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour ; 
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea. 
Think of my love, and bid her think of me. 
16 



F^SULAN IDYL. 

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light 

bound 
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires ; 
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night. 
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, 
And softer sighs, that know not v/hat they want ; 
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree 
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
Of sights in Fiesole right up above. 
While I was gazing a few paces off 
At what they seemed to shosv me with their nods. 
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
A gentle maid came down the garden- steps 
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth 
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 
(Stich I believed it must be ;) for sweet scents 
Are the swift vehicles of stil sweeter thoughts. 
And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
That would let drop without them her best stores. 
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, 
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers live freely, and all die. 
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, 
Among their kindred in their native place. 
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
And not reproacht me ; the ever-sacred cup 
Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
I saw the foot, that, altho half-erect 
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up 
To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
And gathered her some blossoms, since their 

hour 
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and 

flies 
Of harder wing were working their way thro 
And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, 
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, 
For such appear the petals when detacht, 
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun: 
Yet every one her gown received from me 
Was fairer than the first . . I thotight not so, 
But so she praised them to reward my care. 
I said : you find the largest. 

This indeed, 
Cried she, is large and sweet. 

She held one forth, 
Whether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her 

doubts. 
I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part 
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature 
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
To fall, and yet unfallen.' 

She drew back 
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
Drqpt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 



122 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 



PROGRESS OF EVENING. 

Fkom yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve procede : 
First thro' the deep and warm and secret glens, 
Thro' the pale-glimmering privet-scented lane, 
And thro' those alders by the river- side : 
Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep 
Have hollow'd out beneath their hawthorn shade. 
But ah ! look yonder ! see a misty tide 
Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove. 
Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides 
Until they sink and melt away Uke chalk ; 
Now it comes down against our village-tower, 
Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears 
The clinging ivy from the battlements, 
Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone, 
All one vast ocean ! and goes sweUing on 
In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves. 



SIXTEEN. 



In Clementina's artless mien 
Lucilla asks me what I see. 
And are the roses of sixteen 
Enough for me ? 

Lucilla asks, if that be all, 

Have I not cuU'd as sweet before . . 
Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 
I still deplore. 

I now behold another scene, 
Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own 
light, 
More pure, more constant, more serene. 
And not less bright . . 

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose. 

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever. 
And Modesty who, when she goes, 
Is gone for ever. 



TO CORINTH. 

Queen of the double sea. beloved of him 

Who shakes the world's fotmdations, thou hast 

seen 
Glory in all her beauty, all her forms ; 
Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left 
The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind, 
Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight. 
So high that vastest billows from above 
Shew but like herbage waving in the mead ; 
Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games. 
And pass away . . . the beautiful, the brave. 
And them, who sang their praises. 

But, O Queen, 
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs, 
As when they first w^ere uttered, are those words 
Divine which praised the valiant and the just ; 
And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge 
So perilous, him who brought before his eye 
The Colchian babes. 



" Slay ! spare him ! save the last ! 
Medea ! ... is that blood ? again ! it drops 
From my imploring hand upon ray feet . . . 
I will invoke the Eumenides no more . . 
I will forgive thee . . bless thee . . bend to thee 
In all thy wishes ... do but thou, Medea, 
Tell me, one lives. 

" And shall I too deceive ?" 
Cries from the firy car an angry voice ; 
And swifter than two falling stars descend 
Two breathless bodies . . warm, soft, motionless, 
As flowers in stillest noon before the sun. 
They lie three paces from him . . such they lie 
As when he left them sleeping side by side, 
A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks 
Between them, flusht with happiness and love. 
He was more changed than they were . . doomed 

to shew 
Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred 
Grief hunts us down the precipice of years, 
And whom the faithless prey upon the last. 
To give the inertest masses of our earth 
Her loveliest forms was thine, to fi.x the Gods 
Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round 
With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. 
A nobler work remains ; thy citadel 
Invites all Greece : o'er lands and floods remote 
Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee : 
Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled 
Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings 
Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them 

on . . 
Instinct is sharp in them and terrour true . . 
They smell the floor wheron their necks must lie. 



TO FORTUNE. 

Wert thou but blind, O Fortune, then perhaps 
Thou mightest always have avoided me : 
For never voice of mine (young, middle-aged, 
Or going down on tottering knee the shelf 
That crumbles with us to the vale of years) 
Called thee aside, whether thou rannest on 
To others who expected, or didst throw 
Into the sleeper's lap the unsought prize. 
But blind thou art not ; the refreshing cup 
For which my hot heart thirsted, thou hast ever 
(When it was full and at the lip) struck down. 



DOROTHEA. 



Yes, in this chancel once we sat alone, 

Dorothea ! thou wert bright with youth,. 
Freshness Uke Morning's dwelt upon thy cheek, 
While here and there above the level pews, 
Above the housings of the village dames, 

The musky fan its groves and zephyrs waved. 

1 know not why, since we had each our book 
And lookt upon it stedfastly, first one 
Outran the learned labourer from the desk. 
Then tript the other, and hmpt far behind. 

And smiles gave blushes birth, and blushes smilee. 
Ah me ! where are they flown, my lovely friend ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



133 



Two seasons like that season thou hast lain 
Cold as the dark-blue stone beneath my feet, 
While my heart beats as then . . but not with joy ! 

O my lost friends ! why were ye once so dear ! 
And why were ye not fewer, ye few ! 
Must winter, spring, and summer, thus return, 
Commemorating some one torne away, 
Till half the months at last shall take, with me, 
Theu- names from those upon your scatter'd 
graves ! 



ROSE AYLMER. 

Ah what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



ON A CHILD 



Child of a day, thou knowest not 
The tears that overflow thy urn, 

The gushing eyes that read thy lot, 
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return ! 

And why the wish ! the pure and blest 
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. 

O peaceful night ! O envied rest 1 
Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship ! I place no trust in thee, 
Tho' flourishing so fair in fable, 

Or seated with Mythology, 
Or with a bumper glass at table. 

Since first my razor ranged for beard, 
Friendship ! in many another place 

Thy voice (and loud enough) I've heard, 
But never have beheld thy face. 



THE COUNTRY GIRL. 

Let this man smile, and that man sigh 
To see the wheels of fashion whirl ; 

Place me in some cool arbour nigh 
My mild and modest country girl ! 

Or under whitening poplars, high 
O'er flirting brooks, that glance and purl 

To attract such flowers as peer and pry, 
My mild and modest country girl ! 



Would you not tire there 1 . . no, not I . . 

Acids that melt the richest pearl 
Are envy, pride, satiety, 

My mild and modest country girl ! 

Power, office, title . . up they fly 
Against one light and sunny curl. 

That plays above thine azure eye. 
My mild and modest country girl ! 

Knighthood's new spur the squire would try, 
And vicount be emblazon' d earl. 

Content is only seated by 
My mild and modest country girl • 

Possession kings must fortify 
With moat and barbican and merl : 

Thine dwells in free security. 
My mild and modest country girl ! 

Great riches, great authority 
Turn the best-tempered to a churl; 

With health and thee no crosses lie, 
My mild and modest country girl ! 

Tho' Fame and Glory to the sky 
Ambition's wind-worn flag unfurl, 

With thee I'd live, for thee I'd die. 
My mild and modest country girl ! 

Thus round and round thee busily 
Teaching my tinkling rhymes to twirl, 

I did not well hear thy reply. 
My mild and modest country girl!* 



THE SHELL. 

DARLma Shell, where hast thou been< 
West or east what heard or seen ? 
From what pastimes art thou come. 
Can we make amends at home ? 

Whether thou hast tuned the dance 

To the maids of ocean 
Know I not . . but Ignorance 

Never hurts devotion. 

This I know, lanthe's Shell, 
I must ever love thee well, 
Tho' too httle to resound 
While the Nereids dance around : 

For of all the shells that are, 
Thou art sure the brightest : 

Thou, lanthe's infant care, 
Most these eyes delightest. 

To thy early aid she owes 

Teeth like budding snowdrop rows : 



* If the reader has any curiosity to know the origin 
of these trifling verses, they were composed on the re- 
mark of a scholar, that puella in its cases ended many 
in Latin, and that girl ended none in ours, from the 
impossibility of finding such a rhyme as would suit the 
subject. It is something to do any thing which nobody 
can do better. 



134 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



And what other shell can say, 


Spoil'd and prostrate, she lamented 


On her bosom once I lay ? 


What her pride and folly wrought : 




But was ever Pride contented. 


That which into Cyprus bore 


Or would Folly e'er be taught ? 


Venus from her native sea, 




(Pride of shells!) was never more 


Strong are cities ; rage o'erthrows 'em ; 


Dear to her than thou to me. 


Rage o'erswells the gallant ship ; 




Stains it not the cloud-white bosom, 




Flaws it not the ruby lip ? 




All that shields us, all that charms us, 


AN ARAB TO HIS MISTRESS. 


Brow of ivory, tower of stone. 




Yield to Wrath ! another's harms us. 


AGAINST ANGER. 


But we perish by our own. 


Look thou yonder, look and tremble 


Night may send to rave and ravage 


Thou whose passion swells so high : 


Panther and hyena fell ; 


See those ruins ! Inat resemble 


But their manners, harsh and savage, 


Flocks of camels as they lie. 


Little suit the mild gazell. 


'Twas a fair but fro ward city, 


When the waves of life surround thee, 


Bidding tribes and chiefs obey, 


Quenching oft the light of love. 


'Till he came who, deaf to pity. 


When the clouds of doubt confound thee, 


Tost the imploring arm away. 


Drive not from thy breast the dove. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, in 
tne year 1777. He was educated at the Univer- 
sity of that city ; into which he entered at twelve 
years of age, and where he rapidly obtained dis- 
tinction. From Glasgow, he removed to the 
Scottish Metropolis, and cultivated acquaintance 
with the many celebrated men, who, at that pe- 
riod resided there, and who perceived a kindred 
spirit in the youthful Poet. Here he pubhshed 
the " Pleasures of Hope," a poem which at once 
achieved the fame that time has not diminished, 
and which must endure with the language in 
which it is written. Upwards of twenty years 
elapsed before Mr. Campbell again essayed a 
continued work ; but during the interval, he pro- 
duced those immortal odes, the "Battle of the 
BaUic," " Ye Mariners of England," and "Ho- 
henlinden," — the field of which, during the battle, 
he is said to have overlooked from the walls of a 
neighbouring convent. In 1820, he published 
" Gertrude of Wyoming," a poem sufficient to 
maintain the high reputation he had acquired, and 
which, indeed, is by many preferred to the " Plea- 
sures of Hope." In 1824, appeared "Theodric," 
a domestic tale ; and these, with the exception of 
his MINOR poems — the term can have reference 
only to their length — comprise the whole of his 
contributions to English Poetry. In the year 
1820, Mr. Campbell undertook the editorship of 
the " New Monthly Magazine," which he relin- 
quished in 1830 ; and in the conduct of which Mr. 
S. C. Hall had the honour to succeed him. Soon 
afterwards Mr. Campbell undertook a voyage to 
Algiers, the results of which he has recently com- 
municated to the public. During three succes- 
sive years, he was elected Lord Rector of the 
University m which he received his education, a 
distinction the more marked, inasmuch as his 
competitors were Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. 
Canning. To Mr. Campbell we are mainly in- 
debted for the establishment of the London Uni- 
versity : the plan for its formation originated with 
him, and was by him matured; although he left 
its completion in the hands of his more active or 
more influential contemporaries. 

Mr. Campbell is rather below than above the 
middle stature. The expression of his counte- 
nance indicates the sensitiveness of his mind. His 
eye is large and of a deep blue ; his maniijers are 
peculiarly bland and insinuating ; in general so- 
ciety he is exceedingly cheerful, and his conver- 
sation abounds in pointed humour. His general 
appearance is, however, considered to lend force 
to the supposition, that he dislikes labour : and is 
rarely roused to more than momentary exertion. 
At College, he rose to high repute as a scholar; 
and he has since taken some steps to maintain the 
character he acquired ; his lectures on Greek 
Poetry have been published. It has been a sub- 
ject of regret, that Mr. Campbell has written so 



little. But those who so express themselves for 
get that it is far more to their advantage to have 
a few finished models, than a mass of crude and 
incomplete formations, and that it is only by long 
labour in execution, and still longer labour in pre- 
paratory thought and arrangement, that perfection 
can be produced. There is not one of the fine 
" Odes" of Campbell that would be sacrificed for 
a volume : it may be even questioned which the 
world would most willingly permit to perish, 
" The Pleasures of Hope," or, "Ye Mariners of 
England." The whole of his works have been 
recently collected, and published in two volumes ; 
and a new edition has been pubhshed splendidly 
illustrated by Turner, R. A. 

As a prose writer, Mr. Campbell will speedily 
be forgotten ; but, as long as a taste for English 
poetry exists, the "Pleasures of Hope," " Ho- 
henhnden," " Lochiel's Warning," and many 
other pieces, will never cease to have a numerous 
proportion of readers. The elegance and euphony 
of his versification have been justly and univer- 
sally admired ; but this unvarying delicacy and 
polish would be sometimes well exchanged for 
that fine and exciting discord , which is considered 
to be no less a characteristic of the sublime and 
beautiful in poetry than in music. 

Mr. Campbell seeks to engage and to please, 
rather than to rouse and astonish ; and. in the 
former respect, he has the merit of succeeding, 
with a propriety of sentiment, and achasteness of 
diction, that renders his writings attractive and 
agreeable to all classes of readers. His poetry is 
universally felt, and therefore, universally appre- 
ciated. His appeals are made to those sensations 
which are common to mankind. While his poetry 
can bear the test of the severest criticism, it is in- 
telligible to the simplest understanding. As little 
occurs to dissatisfy the mind as the ear. His con- 
ceptions are natural and true ; and the language in 
which he clothes them is graceful and becoming. 
If he has laboured hard — as it is said he always 
does — to render his verse easy and harmonious, 
he never leads the reader to suspect that his care 
to produce harmony has weakened his original 
thought. He afibrds no evidence of fastidiousness 
in the choice of words; yet they always seem the 
fittest for his purpose, and are never forced into a 
service they are not calculated to perform. He 
combines the qualities so rarely met together — 
strength and smoothness — yet his vigour is never 
coarse, and his delicacy never effeminate. His 
subjects have been all skilfully chosen; — he has 
sought for themes only where a pure mind seeks 
them ; and turned from the grosser passions, the 
meaner desires and the vulgar sentiments of man, 
as things unfitted for verse, aird unworthy of il- 
lustration. The Poet has had his reward. His 
poems will perish only vi'ith the memories of 
mankind. 

125 



126 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



MosTOf the popular histories of England, as well as of 
the American war, give an authentic account of the 
desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took 
place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The 
Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are 
connected with that event. The testimonies of his- 
torians and travellers concur in describing the infant 
colony as one of the happiest spots of human ex- 
istence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of 
the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the 
luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil 
hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, 
converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful 
waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of 
many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bear- 
ing marks of conflagration were still preserved by the 
recent inhabitants, when he travelled through Ame- 
rica in 1706. 



PART I. 



I. 



On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! 
Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall 
And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring 
Of what thy gentle people did befall ; 
Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all 
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 
Sweet land ! may I thy lost dehghts recall, 
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, 
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's 
shore ! 

IL 

Delightful Wyoming 1 beneath thy skies, 
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do 
But feed their flocks on green declivities, 
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, 
From morn, till evening's sweeter pastime grew, 
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, 
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew : 
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down 
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 

III. 

Then, where on Indian hills the daylight takes 
His leave, how might you the flamingo see 
Disporting Hk* a meteor on the lakes — 
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : 
And every sound of life was full of glee, 
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; 
While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry, 
The vsrild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then 
Unhunted, sought his wood.s and wilderness again. 

IV. 
And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime 
Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, 
For here the exile met from ev'ry clime, 
And spoke in friendship ev'ry distant tongue : 
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, 
Were but divided by the running brook ; 
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, 
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, 
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to 
pruning-hook. 



V. 
Nor far some Andalusian saraband 
Would sound to many a native roundelay — 
But who is he that yet a dearer land 
Remembers, over hills and far away ? 
Green Albin !* what though be no more survey 
Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, 
Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain bay ; 
Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor 
And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan 



roar it 



VI. 



Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, 
That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief, 
Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! 
Yet found he here a home, and glad relief, 
And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, 
That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : 
And England sent her men, of men the chief, 
Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, 
To plant the tree of Ufe, — to plant fair Freedom's 
tree I 

VII. 

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp 
Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom, 
Judgment awoke not here her dismal trump. 
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom, 
Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb. 
One venerable man, beloved of all, 
Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, 
To sway the strife, that seldom might befall: 
And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. 

Sflll. 
How reverend was the look, serenely aged, 
He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, 
Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, 
Undimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! 
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, 
Some high and haughty features might betray 
A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire 
That fled composure's intellectual ray, 
As Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day. 

IX. 
I boast no song in magic wonders rife, 
But yet, O Nature ! is there nought to prize, 
Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life? 
And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies 
No form with which the soul may sympathize ? 
Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild 
The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, 
An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, 
Or blest his noonday walk — she v/as his only child. 

X. 
Theroseof Englandbloom'don Gertrude's cheek : 
What though these shades had seen her birth, her 

sire 
A Briton's independence taught to seek 
Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 
The fight of social love did long inspire, 
And many a halcyon day he lived to see 
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire, 



* Scotland. 

•?■ The great whirlpool of the Western Hebrides. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



1-27 



When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she 
Was gone — and Gertrude climb'd a widow'd 

father's knee. 

XI. 
A loved bequest, — and I may half unpart 
To them that feel the strong paternal tie, 
How like a new existence to his heart 
That living flower uprose beneath his eye. 
Dear as she was, from cherub infancy, 
From hours when she would round his garden 

play, 
To time when as the ripening years went by, 
Her lovely mind could culture well repay, 
And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to 

day, 

XII. 
I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; 
(Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) 
The orison repeated in his arms. 
For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined. 
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, 
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) 
All uncompanioned else her years had gone 
Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue 

summer shone. 

XIII. 

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, 
An Indian from his bark approach their bower. 
Of buskin'd limb, and swarthy hneament; 
The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, 
And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light 
A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, 
Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright. 
Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by 

night. 

XIV. 
Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young, 
The dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; 
When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, 
Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said, 
And laid his hand upon the stripHng's head, 
" Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; 
The paths of peace my steps have hither led : 
This little nursUng, take him to thy love 
And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the 

parent dove. 

XV. 
" Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe ; 
Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : 
Upon the Michigan, three moons ago. 
We launched our pirogues for the bison chase ; 
And with the Hurons planted for a space. 
With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ; 
But snakes are in the bosoms of their race. 
And though they held with us a friendly talk, 
The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk! 

XVI. 
"It was encamping on the lake's far port, 
A cry of Areouski* broke our sleep. 
Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's 

fort. 
And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ! 



But long thy country's war-sign on the steep 
Appeared through ghastly intervals of light. 
And deathfuUy their thunders seemed to sweep. 
Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, 
As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery 
fight. 

XVII. 
"It slept — it rose again — on high, their tow'r 
Sprung upwards like a torch to hght the skies, 
Then down again it rained an ember shower. 
And louder lamentations heard we rise : 
As when the evil Manitou* that dries 
Th' Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire. 
In vain the desolated panther flies, 
And howls amidst his wilderness of fire: 
Alas ! too late, we reached and smote those 
Hurons dire. 



XVIII. 

"But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, 
So died their warriors by our battle brand ; 
And from the tree we, with her child, unbound 
A lonely mother of the Christian land — 
Her lord — the captain of the British band — 
Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. 
Scarce knew the widow our dehvering hand ; 
Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away, 
Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians 
pray. 

XIX. 

" Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls 
Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : 
But she was journeying to the land of souls. 
And lifted up her dying head to pray 
That we should bid an ancient friend convey 
Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; 
And take, she said, this token far away, 
To one that will remember us of yore. 
When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's 
Julia wore. 

XX. 

" And I, the eagle of my tribe, t have rushed 
With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command 
Had quelled the tears from Albert's heart that 

gushed ; 
But yet his cheek — his agitated hand — 
That showered upon the stranger of the land 
No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled 
A soul that was not wont to be unmanned : 
"And stay," he cried, "dear pilgrim of the wild ! 
Preserver of my old, my boon companion's 

child !— 

XXI. 

" Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, 
On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here ! 
Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms. 
Young as thyself, and innocently dear, 
Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. 
Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime! 
How beautiful ev'n now thy scenes appear, 



*The Indian God of War. 



* Manitou, Spirit or Deity. 

tTlie Indians are distinguished both personally and 
by tribes by the name of particular animals, whose 
qualities they affect to resemble, either for cunning, 
strength, swiftness, or other qualities: — as the eagle, 
i the serpent, the fox, or bear. 



128 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! 
How gone like yesterday these tlirice ten years 
of time ! 

XXII. 
" And, Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, 
Can I forget thee, fav'rite child of yore ? 
Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou 
Were lightest hearted on his festive floor, 
And first of all his hospitable door 
To meet and kiss me at my journey's end ? 
But where was I when Waldegrave was no 

more? 
And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend, 
In woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was thy 

friend ! ' ' 

XXIII. 

He said — and strained unto his heart the boy ; 
far differently, the mute Oneyda took 
His calumet of peace,* and cup of joy ; 
As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
A soul that pity touched, but never shook ; 
Trained, from liis tree-rocked cradlet to his bier. 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

XXIV. 
Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock 
Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow ; 
As lives the oak unwithered on the rock 
By storms above, and barrenness below ; 
He scorned his own, who felt another's woe: 
And ere the wolfskin on his back he flung, 
Or laced his moccasons, in act to go, 
A song of parting to the boy he sung. 
Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his 
friendly tongue. 

XXV. 

" Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land 
Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, 
Oh ! tell her spirit, that the white man's hand 
Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; 
While I in lonely vnlderness shall greet 
Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know 
The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet 
To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, 
And poured the lotus-horn, t or slew the moun- 
tain roe. 

XXVI. 
" Adieu ". sweet scion of the rising sun ! 
But should affliction's storms thy blossoms mock, 
Then come again — my own adopted one ! 
And I will graft thee on a noble stock : 
The crocodile, the condor of the rock. 
Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; 
And I will teach thee, in the battle's shock, 

*«Calumet of Peace."— The calumet is the Indian 
name for the ornamented pipe of friendship, which 
they smoke as a pledge of amity. 

f'Tree-rocked cradle. "—The Indian mothers sus- 
pend their children in their cradles from the boughs of 
trees, and let them be rocked by the wind. 

+ From a flower shaped like a horn, which Cha- 
teaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the In- 
dians in their travels through the desert often tind a 
draught of dew, purer than any other water. 



To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, 
And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars !" 

XXVII. 
So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) 
That true to nature's fervid feelings ran; 
(And song is but the eloquence of truth :) 
Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring man; 
But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan 
In woods required, whose trained eye was keeti 
As eagle of the wilderness, to scan 
His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, 
Or ken far friendly huvs on good savannas green. 

XXVIII. 

Old Albert saw him from the valley's side — 
His pirogue launched — his pilgrimage begun — 
Far, like the red-bird's wing, he seemed lo ghde ; 
Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. 
Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, 
Would Albert climb the promontory's height, 
If but a dim sail ghmmered in the sun ; 
But never more to bless his longing sight, 
Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage 
bright. 



PART II. 



I. 

A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn 
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; 
And waters to their resting-place serene 
Came fresh'ning, and reflecting all the scene : 
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;) 
So sweet a spot of earth, you might, I ween. 
Have guessed some congregation of the elves 
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for 
themselves. 

II. 

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse. 
Nor vistas opened by the wand' ring stream ; 
Both where at evening Alleghany views, 
Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
Lake after lake interminably gleam : 
And, past those settlers' haunts, the eye might 

roam 
Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; 
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome. 
Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. 

III. 
But silent not that adverse eastern path, 
Which saw Aurora's hill th' horizon crown; 
There was the river heard, in bed of wrath, 
(A precipice of foam from mountains brown,) 
Like tumults heard from some far distant town ; 
But soft'ning in approach he left his gloom. 
And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down 
To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, 
That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. 

IV. 
It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had 
On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own 
Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad. 
That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon ; 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



129 



Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, 
Or it a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, 
(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;) 
Yet so becomingly th' expression past, 
That each succeeding look was lovelier than the 
last. 

V. 
Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home. 
With all its picturesque and balmy grace, 
And fields that were a luxury to roam, 
Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! 
Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace 
Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, 
The sun-rise path, at morn, I see thee trace 
To hills with high magnolia overgrown, 
And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and 

alone. 

VI. 
The sun-rise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, 
That thus apostrophized its viewless scene : 
" Land of ray father's love, my mother's birth ! 
The home of kindred I have never seen ! 
We know not other — oceans are between : 
Yet say ! far friendly hearts, from whence we 

came. 
Of us does oft remembrance intervene ? 
My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; — 
But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. 

vn. 

"And yet, loved England! when thy name I 

trace 
In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, 
How can I choose but wish for one embrace 
Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong 
My mother's looks — perhaps her likeness strong ? 
Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, 
From features of thine own related throng. 
An image of thy face my soul could draw I 
And see thee once again whom I too shortly 

saw!" 

vm. 

Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; 
To soothe a father's couch her only care, 
And keep his rev'rend head from all annoy : 
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, 
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; 
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, 
Wliile boatmen carrolled to the fresh-blown air, 
And woods a horizontal shadow threw. 
And early fox appeared in momentary view. 

IX. 

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; 
Tradition had not named its lonely spot : 
But here, methinks, might India's sons explore 
Their fathers' dust,* or Uft, perchance, of yore. 
Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime 
To human art a sportive semblance bore. 
And yellow lichens coloured all the clime. 
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed 
by time. 



* It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit tiie 
tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of 
America, who have been buried for upwards of a cen- 
tury. 

17 



X. 

But high in amphitheatre above, 
His arms the everlasting aloes threw : 
Breathed but an air of heav'n, and all the grove 
As if with instinct living spirit grew, 
RoUing its verdant gulfs of every hue ; 
And now suspended was the pleasing din. 
Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew, 
Like the first note of organ heard within 
Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. 

XI. 
It was in this lone valley she would charm 
The ling'ring noon, where flow'rs a couch had 

strewn ; 
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm 
On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown : 
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown 
Which every heart of human mould endears ; 
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles 

alone, 
And no intruding visitation fears. 
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her 

sweetest tears. 

XIL 

And nought within the grove was heard or seen 
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro- 
found, 
Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird. 
Like atoms of the rainbow iluttering round ; 
When, lo ! there entered to its inmost ground 
A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; 
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ; 
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tanned. 
And California's gales his roving bosom fanned. 

XHL 

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, 
He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, 
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm. 
Close he had come, and worshipped for a space 
Those downcast features : — she her lovely face 
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame 
Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace : 
Iberian seemed his boot — his robe the same, 
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks be- 
came. 

XIV. 
For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair 
Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. 
Returning from the copse he soon was there ; 
And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green- 
wood ; 
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood 
Between the man of age and pilgrim young, 
That gay congeniality of mood. 
And early liking from acquaintance sprung : 
Full fluently conversed their guest in England's 
tongue. 

XV. 
And well could he his pilgrimage of taste 
Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain. 
While he each fair variety retrac'd 
Of chmes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. 
Now happy Switzer's hills, — romantic Spain, — 
Gay filled fields of France, — or, more refined, 
The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ; 



130 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Nor less each rural image he designed 
Than all the city's pomp and home of human- 
Idnd. 

XVI. 

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ; 
Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, — 
The loneliness of earth that overawes, — 
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak, 
Nor living voice nor motion marks around ; 
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, 
Or vi'ild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,* 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado 
sound. 

XVII. 
Pleased with his guest, the good man still would 

ply 
Each earnest question, and his converse court ; 
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why 
A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. 
"In England thou hast been, — and, by report, 
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have 

known. 
Sad tale ! — when latest fell our frontier fort, — 
One innocent — one soldier's child — alone 
Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him 

as my own. — 

XVIII. 
" Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful 

years 
These very walls his infant sports did see ; 
But most I loved him when his parting tears 
Alternately bedewed my child and me : 
His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; 
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold : 
By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, 
They tore him from us when but twelve years 

old, 
And scarcely for his loss have I been yet con- 
soled !" 

XIX. 

His face the wanderer hid — but could not hide 
A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; — 
" And speak ! mysterious stranger !" (Gertrude 

cried ;) 
" It is ! — it is ! — T knew — I knew him well ! 
'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to 

fell!" 
A burst of joy the father's lips declare ; 
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell : 
At once his open arms embrace the pair, 
Was never group more blest, in this wide world 

of care. 

XX. 
" And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) 
Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false at- 
tire ? 
I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth, 
The very fortunes of your house inquire ; 



* The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of 
Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, 
however strong to support the passenger, are yet 
waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently 
add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque 
scenery. 



Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire 
Impart, and I my weakness all betray ; 
For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, 
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day — 
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass 
away. 

XXI. 

"But here ye live, — ye bloom, — in each dear 

face 
The changing hand of time I may not blame ; 
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace. 
And here of beauty perfected the frame ; 
And well I know your hearts are still the same, — 
They could not change — ye look the very way. 
As when an orphan first to you I came. 
And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray? 
Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a 

joyous day ?" 

XXII. 

" And art thou here ? or is it but a dream ? 
And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us 

more ?" 
" No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem 
Than aught on earth — ihanev'n thyself of yore — 
I will not part thee from thy father's shore; 
But we shall cherish him with mutual arms. 
And hand in hand again the path explore, 
Which every ray of young remembrance warms. 
While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth 

and charms." 

XXIII. 
At morn, as if beneath a galaxy 
Of over-arching groves in blossoms white. 
Where all was od'rous scent and harmony. 
And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight: 
There if, oh, gentle Love ! I read aright 
The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, 
'Twas list'ning to these accents of delight. 
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond 
Expression's pow'r to paint, all languishingly 
fond. 

XXIV. 
" Flow'r of my life, so lovely, and so lone i 
Whom I would rather in this desert meet, 
Scorning, and scorned by fortune's pow'r, than 

own 
Her pomp and splendours lavished at my feet ! 
Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite 
Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine — to 

please — 
Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, 
And more than all the wealth that loads the 

breeze. 
When Coromandel's ships return from Indian 

seas." 

XXV. 
Then would that home admit them — happier far 
Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, 
While, here and ihere, a solitary star 
Flushed in the dark'ning firmament of June; 
And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, 
Ineffable, which I may not portray ; 
For never did the Hymenean moon 
A paradise of hearts more sacred sway. 
In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



131 



PART III, 



O Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine. 
Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine 
The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire ! 
Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 
Nor, blind with ecstacy's celestial fire. 
Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time 
expire. 

II. 

Three little moons, how short ! amid the grove 
And pastoral savannas they consume ! 
While she, beside her buskined youth to rove, 
Delights, in fancifully wild costume. 
Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; 
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; 
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; 
'Tis but the breath of heav'n — the blessed air — 
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to 
share. 

III. 

What though the sportive dog oft round them 

note, 
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; 
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote 
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring. 
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring ? 
No ! — nor let fear one httle warbler rouse ; 
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing, 
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, 
That shade e'en now her love, and witnessed first 

her vows. 

IV. 

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, 
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, 
Where welcome hills shut out the universe. 
And pines their lawny walk encompass round; 
There, if a pause delicious converse found, 
'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole, 
(Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drown'd) 
That, come what may, while Ufe's glad pulses roll, 
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. 

V. 
And in the visions of romantic youth, 
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! 
But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? 
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! 
And must I change my song ? and must I show. 
Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert 

doomed. 
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low ! 
When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, 
Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes 

gloomed. 

VI. 
Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven. 
When Transatlantic Liberty arose, ', 

Not in the sunshine, and the smile of HeavenJ' 
But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, 
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes : 



Her birth-star was the light of burning plains ;* 
Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows 
From kindred hearts — the blood of British veins — 
And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. 

VII. 

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, 
Or siege unseen in heav'n reflects its beams, i 
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, 
That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly 

dreams ? 
Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams 
Portentous light I and music's voice is dumb ; 
Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, 
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum, 
That speaks of madd'ning strife, and blood-stained 

fields to come. 

VIIL 
It was in truth a momentary pang ; 
Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! 
First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, 
A husband to the battle doomed to go ! 
"Nay, meet not thou (she cries) thy kindred 

foe ; 
But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand !" 
" Ah, Gertrude ! thy beloved heart, I know. 
Would feel, like mine, the stigmatizing brand ! 
Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band. 

IX. 
"But shame — but flight — a recreant's name to 

prove, 
To hide in exile ignominious fears ; 
Say, e'en if this I brooked, the public love 
Thy father's bosom to his home endears : 
And how could I his few remaining years. 
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ?" 
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers ; 
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled. 
And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful 

beauty smiled. 

X. 
Night came, — and in their lighted bow'r, full late, 
The joy of converse had endured — when, hark ! 
Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate ; 
And, heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark, 
A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, 
And spread his arms, — and fell upon the floor : 
Of aged strength his limbs retain the mark; 
But desolate he looked, and famished, poor, 
As ever shipv/recked wretch lone left on desert 
shove. 

XI. 

Upris'n, each wond' ring brow is knit and arched: 

A spirit from the dead they deem him first : 

To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd, 

From lips, as by some pow'rless dream accursed, 

Emotions unintelligible burst ; 

And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; 

At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst 

Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering 

limb, 
When Albert's hand he grasped ; — but Albert 

knew not him — 



* Alludiog to the mieeries that attended the Ameri- 
can civil war. 



132 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



XIL 

"And hast thou then forgot," (he cried forlorn, 
And eyed the group with half indignant air,) 
" Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn 
When I with thee the cup of peace did share ? 
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, 
That now is white as Appalachia's snow ; 
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, 
And age, hath bowed me, and the torturing foe. 
Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer 
know !" 

xin. 

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, 

Ere Henry to his lov'd Oneyda flew : 

" Bless thee, my guide !" — but, backward, as he 

came. 
The chief his old bewildered head withdrew. 
And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him 

through. 
'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile con- 
trol— 
The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : — 
At last delight o'er all his features stole, 
"It is— my own," he cried, and clasped him to 
his soul. 

XIV. 
" Yes I thou recall' St my pride of years, for then 
The bowstring of my spirit was not slack. 
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd 

men, 
I bore thee like the quiver on my back. 
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack; 
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared,* 
For I was strong as mountain cataract : 
And dost thou not remember how we cheered, 
Upoa the last hill-top, when white men's huts 
appeared ? 

XV. 
"Then welcome be my death-song, and my 

death ! 
Smce I have seen thee, and again embraced." 
And longer had he spent his toil worn breath ; 
But, vnth affectionate and eager haste. 
Was every arm outstretched around their guest, 
To welcome, and to bless his aged head. 
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; 
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed 
On vfounds with fever'd joy that more profusely 
bled. 

XVI. 
" But this is not a time," — he started up, 
And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand — 
" This is no time to fill the joyous cup. 
The Mammoth comes, — the foe, the Monster 

Brandt, t 
With all his howling desolating band; — 
These eyes have seen their blade, and burning 

pine 
Awake at once, and silence half your land. 
Red is the cup they drink, but not with wine : 
Awake, and watch to-night ! or see no morning 
shine I 



* Cougar, the American tiger. 

t Brandt was the leader of those Mohawks, and 
other savages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylva- 
nia. 



XVII. 
"Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: 
Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe 
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth: 
No! not the dog, that watched my household 

hearth. 
Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! 
All perished ! — I alone am left on earth ! 
To whom nor relative nor blood remains, 
No I — not a kindred drop that runs in human 

veins ! 

XVIII. 
" But go ! — and rouse your warriors ; — for, if right 
These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs 
Of striped and starred banners, on yon height 
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines — 
Some fort embattled by your country shines : 
Deep roars th' innavigable gulf below 
Its squared rock, and pahsaded lines. 
Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; 
While I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the 
foe!" 

XIX. 

Scarce had he uttered — when heav'n's verge 

extreme 
Reverberates the bomb's descending star, — 
And sounds that mingled laugh, — and shout, — 

and scream, — 
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, 
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed ! 
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; 
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed : — 
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet 

v/ailed. 

XX. 
Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhting 
The bandit groups, in one Vestivian glare ; 
Or swept, far seen, the tow'r, whose clock un- 

rung, 
Told legible that midnight of despair. 
She faints, — she falters not, — th' heroic fair, — 
As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. 
One short embrace — he clasped his dearest care — 
But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the 

glade ? 
Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling 

through the shade '. 

XXI. 

Then came of every race the mingled swarm. 
Far rung the groves, and gleamed the midnight 

grass. 
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 
As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, 
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : 
And first the wild Moravian yagers pass. 
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins — 
And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle 

shines. 

XXII. 

Ana in, the buskined hunters of the deer, 

To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal 

throng : — 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 



133 



Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and 

cheer. 
Old Outalissi woke his battle-song, 
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, 
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, 
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long 
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts. 
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit 

parts. 

XXIII. 

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose. 
Pale on his venerable brow its rays 
Of martyr light the conflagration throws ; 
One hand upon his lovely child he lays. 
And one th' uncovered crowd to silence sways ; 
While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n, — 
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, 
He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n, — 
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be 
forgiv' n. 

XXIV. 
Short time is now for gratulating speech : 
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 
Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach, 
Looked not on thee the rudest partisan 
With brow relaxed to love ? And murmurs ran, 
As round and round their willing ranks they 

drew, 
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. 
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, 
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave 

adieu ! 

XXV. 

Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the 

tow'r. 
That like a giant standard-bearer, frowned 
Defiance on the roving Indian pow'r. 
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound 
With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned. 
And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin. 
Wove like a diadem its tracery round 
The lofty summit of that mountain green : 
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant 

scene. 

XXVI. 

A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun. 
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
And for the business of destruction done, 
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : 
There sad spectatress of her country's woe 1 
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, 
Had laid her cheek and clasped her hands of snow 
On V/aldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm 
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild 
alarm ! 

XXVII. 

But short that contemplation — sad and short 
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! 
Beneath the very shadow of the fort. 
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners 

flew; 
Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew 
Was near? — yet there, with lust of murd'rous 

deeds, 
Gleamed, like a basalisk, from woods in view, 



The ambushed foenian's eye — his volley speeds, 
And Albert — Albert — falls ! the dear old father 
bleeds I 

XXVIII. 

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; 
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, 
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's 

wounds, 
These drops? — Oh, God! the life-blood is her 

own ! 
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom 

thrown — 
" Weep not, love !" — she cries, "to see me 

bleed — 
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed 
These wounds ; — yet thee to leave is death, is 

death indeed ! 

XXIX. 

" Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! 

think, 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess. 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness. 
And friend to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. 
And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in 

dust ! 

XXX. 

" Go, Henry, go not back when I depart. 
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 
Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove 
With thee, as M'ith an angel, through the grove 
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 
And must this parting be our very last ? 
No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 
past. 

XXXI. 
' ' Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this 

earth, — 
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the 

sun, 
If I had hved to smile but on the birth 
Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be 

none, 
In future times — no gentle little one. 
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run, 
A sweetness in the cup of death to be. 
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding 

thee !" 

XXXII. 
Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their 

bland 
And beautiful expression seemed to melt 
With love that could not die ! and still his hand 
She presses to the heart no more that felt. 
Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt. 
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. 
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt, 



134 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Of them that stood encirchng his despair, 
He heard some friendly words ; — but knew not 
what they were. 

XXXIII. 

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives 
A faithful band. With solemn rites between, 
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, 
And in their deaths had not divided been. 
Touched by the music, and the melting scene, 
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — 
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were 

seen 
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved 

shroud — 
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. 

XXXIV. 

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid 
Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; 
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid 
His face on earth ; him watched, in gloomy ruth, 
His woodland guide : but words had none to 

soothe 
The grief that knew not consolation's name: 
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, 
He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that 

came 
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering 

frame ! 

XXXV. 

" And I could weep !" th' Oneyda chief 

His descant wildly thus begun : — 

" But that I may not stain with grief 

The death-song of my father's son, 

Or bow this head in woe ! 

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! 

To-morrow Areouski's breath 

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death) 

Shall light us to the foe : 

And we shall share, my Christian boy! 

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy I 

XXXVI. 

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 

By milder genii o'er the deep, 

The spirits of the white man's heaven 

Forbid not thee to weep : — 

Nor v.'ill the Christian host. 

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve. 

To see thee, on the battle's eve, 

Lamenting, take a mournful leave 

Of her who loved thee most: 

She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 

Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 

XXXVII. 

To-morrow let us do or die ! 

But when the bolt of death is hurled. 

Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. 

Shall Outahssi roam the world? 

Seek we thy once-loved home ? 

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : 

Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 

Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs ! 

And should we thither roam, 

Its echoes, and its empty tread, 

Would sound like voices from the dead ! 



XXXVIII. 
" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 
Whose streams my kindred nation quaflTed ? 
And by my side, in battle true, 
A thousand warriors drew the shaft? 
Ah ! there in desolation cold. 
The desert serpent dwells alone. 
Where grass o'ergrows each raould'ring bone 
And stones themselves to ruin grown 
Like me, are death-like old. 
Then seek we not their camp, — for there — 
The silence dwells of my despair ! 

XXXIX. 

" But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou 
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears: 
Ev'n from the land of shadows now 
My father's awful ghost appears, 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll; 
He bids my soul for battle thirst — 
He bids me dry the last — the first — 
The only tears that ever burst 
From Outalissi's soul ; 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief!" 



THEODRIC : 
A DOMESTIC TALE 



'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was 

sung. 
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains 

flung, 
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, 
And tinged the lakes hke molten gold below. 
Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the 

storm. 
Where, phcenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, 
That high in heaven's verniihon wheel' d and 

soar'd, 
Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and 

roar'd. 
From heights browsed by the bounding boa- 

quetin ; 
Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales 

between, 
And hamlets glitter' d white, and gardens flou- 
rish' d green. 
'Twiis transport to inhale the bright sweet air! 
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare. 
And roving with its minstrelsy across 
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss. 
Earth's features so harmoniously were hnk'd, 
She seem'd one great glad form, with hfe 

instinct, 
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled 

below 
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. 

A Gothic church was near ; the spot around 
Was beautiful ; ev'n though sepulchral ground j 
For there no yew nor cypress spread their gloom, 
But roses blossom'd by each rusfic tomb 



THEODRiC 



135 



Amidst them one of spotless marble shone — 
A maiden's grave — and 'twas inscribed thereon, 
That yomig and loved she died whose dust was 
there. 

"Yes," said my comrade, " yomig she died, 
and fair ! 
Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play' d 
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : 
Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along, 
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song: 
Yet woo'd and worshipp'd as she was, till few 
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true. 
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd 
And died of love that could not be return'd. 

Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines 
O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. 
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride 
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to 

glide, — 
And still the garden whence she graced her brow. 
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. 
How oft from yonder window o'er the lake. 
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake 
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! 
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited and bland, 
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, 
Why had no gallant native youth the art 
To win so warm — so exquisite a heart ? 
She, 'midst these rocks inspired wth feelings 

strong 
By mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 
Herself descended from the brave in arms, 
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, 
Dreamt of heroic beings ; hoped to find 
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ; 
And, scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the 

claim 
Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame. 

Her younger brother, skteen summers old, 
And much her likeness both in mind and mould. 
Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine. 
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. 
'Twas when, alas ! our Empire's evil star 
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war ; 
When patriots bled, and bitter anguish cross'd 
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. 
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; 
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say, 
One corps had ever made a valiant stand. 
The corps in which he served, — Theodric's band. 
His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by. 
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky ; 
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show 
Our fields of battle twenty years ago. 
Will tell you feats his small brigade perform'd, 
In cliarges nobly faced and trenches storm' d. 
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame. 
And soldiers loved the march that bore his 

name; 
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call. 
And that Helvetian, Udolph's, most of all. 
'Twas touching, when the storm of war blew 

wild. 
To see a blooming boy, — almost a child, — 



Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, 
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, 
And speed each (ask, and tell each message clear, 
In scenes where war-train' d men were stunn'd 
with fear. 

Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy 
In yonder house, — when letters from the boy 
Thank'd Heav'n for life, and more, to use liis 

phrase. 
Than tv^enty lives — his own commander's praise. 
Then foUow'd glowing pages, blazoning forth 
Tiie fancied image of his leader's worth. 
With such hyperboles of youthful style 
As made his parents dry their tears and smile. 
But differently far his words impress'd 
A wond'ring sister's well-believing breast ; — 
She caught th' illusion, blest Theodric's name, 
And wildly magnified his worth and fame ; 
Rejoicing life's reaUty contain'd 
One, heretofore, her fancy had but feign'd. 
Whose love could itiake her proud ; and time antt 

chance 
To passion raised that day-dream of romance. 

Once, when with hasty charge of horse and 

man 
Our arriere-guard had check'd the Gallic van, 
Theodric, visiting the outposts found. 
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground : — 
Sore crush' d, — half-swooning, half-upraised, he 

lay. 
And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasp'd the 

clay. 
His fate moved ev'n the common soldier's 

ruth — 
Theodric succor' d him ; nor left the youth 
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent 
And lent what aid a brother would have lent. 

Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart 
The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, 
He wrote th' event to them ; and soon could tell 
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well; 
And last of all, prognosticating cure, 
Enclosed the leech's vouching signature. 

Their answers, on whose pages you might note 
That teais had fall'n, whilst trembling fingers 

wrote. 
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd. 
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word. 
Whose memory Time, they said, would never 

blot. 
But wliich the giver had himself forgot. 

In time, the stripling, vigorous andheal'd, 
Resumed his barb and banner in the field. 
And bore himself right soldier-fike, till now 
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his 

brow ; 
When peace, though but a scanty pause for 

breath, — 
A curtain-drop between the acts of death,— 
A check in frantic war's unfinish'd game. 
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. 
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief 
As with a son's or younger brother's grief: 



136 



THOMAS CAMPBELL, 



But journeying home, how rapt his spirit rose ! 
How hght his footsteps crush' d St. Gothard's 

snows. 
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild 

Schreckhorn, 
Though rapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn 
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms ; 
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms, 
And fragrance firom the mountain-herbage blown. 
Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! 

His coming down yon lake, — his boat in view 
Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief 

flew, — 
The arms spread out for him, — the tears that 

burst, — 
('Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's, met him first :) 
Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, 
And all their rapture's greeting, maybe guess'd. 

Erelong, his bosom triumph' d to unfold 
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, — ■ 
The picture of a friend in warlike dress ; 
And who it was he first bade Julia guess. 
'Yes,' she replied, "twas he methought in 

sleep, 
When you were wounded, told me not to weep.' 
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew 
Regards its living semblance little knew. 

Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before 
Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic 

lore, 
A glad enthusiast now explored the land, 
Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in 

hand : 
Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ; 
Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil ; 
Her towns, where civic independence flings 
The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ; 
Her works of art, resembling magic's powers; 
Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous 

bowers, — 
These he had visited, with v/onder's smile, 
And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. 
But how our fates from unmomentous things 
May rise, Hke rivers out of httle springs ! 
A trivial chance postponed his parting day. 
And pubhc tidings caused, in that delay. 
An Enghsh jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight; 
At eve stupendous London, clad in hght, 
Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; 
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smihng in the blaze ; 
Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland. 
And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land. 
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, 
In open chariots pass'd with pearl and plume. 
Amidst them he remark' d a lovelier mien 
Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had 

seen ; 
The throng detain'd her till he rein'd his steed, 
And, ere the beauty pass'd, had time to read 
The motto and the arms her carriage bore. 
Led by that clue, he left not England's shore 
Till he had known her : and to know her well 
Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell; 
For, with affections warm, intense, refined, 
She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind. 



That, like Heaven's image in the smihng brook, 
Celestial peace was pictured in her look. 
Hers v/as the brow, in trials unperpiex'd. 
That cheer'd the sad and tranquiUized the vex'd; 
She studied not the meanest to eclipse, 
And yet the wisest hstcn'd to her lips ; 
She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill. 
But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will. 
He sought — he won her — and resolved to make 
His future home in England for her sake. 

Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern 
To Caesar's court commanded his return, 
A season's space, — and on his Alpine way. 
He reach'd those bowers, that rang with joy that 

day : 
The boy was half beside himself, — the sire 
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire, 
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; 
And tears bedew'd and brighteri'd Julia's cheek. 

Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, 
A month he promised with them to abide ; 
As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they, 
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay. 
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fann'd 
By yon blue water's breath — their walks how 

bland I 
Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite — 
A gem reflecting Nature's purest light. 
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought 
A wildly sweet unworldhness of thought, 
That almost child-hke to his kindness drew, 
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. 
But did his thoughts to love one moment range? — 
No ! he who had loved Constance could not 

change ! 
Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd, 
Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his 

mind. 
That eyes so young on years hke his should 

beam 
Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem. 

True, she sang to his very soul, and brought 
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought 
Which only Music's heav'n-born art can bring, 
To sweep across the mind with angel wing. 
Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance. 
She paused o'ercome : he thought it might be 

chance. 
And, v.'hen his first suspicions dimly stole. 
Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. 
But when he saw his caution gave her pain. 
And kindness brought suspense's rack again. 
Faith, honour, friendship bound him to unmask 
Truths which her timid fondness fear'd to ask. 

And yet with gracefully ingenuous power 
Her spirit met th' explanatory hour ; 
Ev'n conscious beauty brighten'd in her eyes. 
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; 
And pride, like that of one more woman-grown, 
Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. 
'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made 
That mock'd all skill her hand had e'er display'd : 
Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, 
She look'd the very Muse of magic sound. 



THEODRIC 



137 



Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, 
Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. 
Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd, 
And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; 
But grief seem'd lingering in its lengthen'd swell, 
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. 
Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak. 
And stedfast smoothness still possess' d her cheek; 
But when he told her how he oft had plann'd 
Of old a journey to their mountain-land, 
That might have brought him hither years before, 
'Ah! then,' she cried, 'you knew not Eng- 
land's shore — 
And had you come — and wherefore did you not ?' 
' Yes,' he replied, 'it would have changed our 

lot.' 
Then burst her tears through pride's restraining 

bands, 
And with her handkerchief, and both her hands. 
She hid her face and wept. — Contrition stung 
Theodric for the tears his words had wrung. 
'But no,' she cried, 'unsay not what you've 

said. 
Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stay'd ; 
To think I could have merited your faith, 
Shall be my solace even unto death !' 
' Juha,' Theodric said, with purposed look 
Of firmness, 'my reply deserved rebuke; 
But by your pure and sacred peace of mind. 
And by the dignity of womankind. 
Swear that when I am gone you'll do your best 
To chase this dream of fondness from your 
breast.' 

Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; — 
She look'd to heav'n, as if its aid she sought. 
Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, 
And signified the vow she could not speak. 

Erelong he communed with her mother mild : 
'Alas!' she said, 'I warn'd — conjured my child. 
And grieved for this affection from the first, 
But like fatality it has been nursed ; 
For when her fiU'd eyes on your picture fix'd. 
And when your name in all she spoke was mix'd, 
'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! 
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find 
Made only fi-esh-rejected suitors grieve, 
And Udolph's pride — perhaps her own — believe 
That could she meet, she might enchant even 

you. 
You came. — I augur'd the event, 'tis true ; 
But how was Udolph's mother to exclude 
The guest that claim' d our boundless gratitude ? 
And that unconscious you had cast a spell 
On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell ; 
Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, 
BeHeve me well, how blameless you have been : 
Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end, 
Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.' 
At night he parted with the aged pair ; 
At early morn rose Julia to prepare 
The last repast her hands for him should make ; 
And Udolph to convey him o'er the lake. 
The parting was to her such bitter grief. 
That of her own accord she made it brief; 
But, ling'ring at her window, long survey'd 
His boat's last glimpses melting into shade. 
18 



Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved 
His journey's object. Much was he relieved 
When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind 
Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resign'd. 
He took the Rhenish route to England, high 
Elate with hopes, fulfiU'd their ecstacy, 
And interchanged with Constance's own breath 
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. 

To paint that being to a groveUing mind 
Were like portraying pictures to the blind. 
'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel 
Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal, 
To share existence with her, and to gain 
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain, 
Of that pure pride, which, less'ning to her breast 
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest. 
Before the mind completely understood 
That mighty truth — how happy are the good ! 

Ev'n when her hght forsook him, it bequeath'd 
Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed 
A sweetness that survived her hving days 
As od'rous scents outlast the censer's blaze. 

Or if a trouble dimm'd their golden joy, 
'Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy : 
Their home knew but affection's looks and speech ; 
A little Heav'n, above dissension's reach. 
But 'midst her kindred there was strife and gall ; 
Save one congenial sister, they were all 
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, 
As if she had engross'd the virtue of her race. 
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal. 
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; 
And though the wounds she cured were soon 

unclosed, 
Unwearied still her kindness interposed. 

Oft on those errands though she went in vain, 
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, 
He bore her absence for its pious end. — 
But public grief his spirit came to bend ; 
For war laid waste his native land once more, 
And German honour bled at every pore. 
Oh ! were he there, he thought, to rally back 
One broken band, or perish in the wrack ! 
Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt 
His purpose : like herself she spoke and felt: — 
' Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe 
Except its loss ! — but with you let me go. 
To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight ; 
Harm will not reach me — ^hazards will delight !' 
He knew those hazards better ; one campaign 
In England he conjured her to remain. 
And she express'd assent, although her heart 
In secret had resolved ihey should not part. 

How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves 
Are wreck'd by errors most unlike themselves ! 
That little fault, that fraud of love's romande, 
That plan's concealment, wrought their whole 

mischance. 
He knew it not, preparing to embark. 
But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, 
When, 'midst those number'd days, she made 

repair 
Again to kindred worthless of her care. 



138 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



'Tis true, she said the tidings she should write 
Would make her absence on his heart sit hght ; 
But, haplessly, re^real'd not yet her plan, 
And left him in his home a lonely man. 

Thus damp'd in thoughts, he mused upon the 

past : 
'Twas long since he had heard from Udoiph last, 
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell, 
That all with Udolph's household was not well. 
'Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear 
That augurs griefs inevitably near, 
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind, 
When come. Least look'd-for then of human 

kind, 
His Udoiph ('twas, he thought at first, his sprite) 
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. 
How changed was Udoiph ! Scarce Theodric durst 
Inquire his tidings, — he reveal'd the worst. 
' At first,' he said, ' as Juha bade me tell, 
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well. 
Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide, 
And from the world's compassion save our pride ; 
But still her health gave way to secret woe, 
And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow ! 
Her reason went, but came returning, like 
The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike : 
And all for which she now, poor sufferer I sighs, 
Is once to see Theodric ere she dies. 
Why should I come to tell you this caprice ! 
Forgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace. 
I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame, 
That my insane ambition for the name 
Of brother to Theodric, founded all 
Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their 

fall. 
I made her slight a mother's counsel sage. 
But now my parents droop with grief and age ; 
And though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke. 
They overwhelm me with their dying look. 
The journey's long, but you are full of ruth ; 
And she who shares your heart and knows its 

truth 
Has faith in your affection, far above 
The fear of a poor dying object's love.' — 
' She has, my Udoiph,' he rephed, ' 'tis tme ; 
And oft we talk of Julia — oft of you.' 
Their converse came abruptly to a close : 
For scarce could each his troubled looks compose, 
When visitants, to Constance near akin, 
(In all but traits of soul,) were usher'd in. 
They brought not her, nor midst their kindred 

band 
The sister who alone, Hke her, was bland ; 

But said — and smiled to see it give him pain 

That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. 
Vex'd by their tidings, and the haughty view 
They cast on Udoiph as the youth withdrew, 
Theodric blamed his Constance's intent. — 
The demons went, and left him as they went, 
To read, when they were gone beyond recall, 
A note from her loved hand, explaining all. 
She said, that with their house she only staid 
That parting peace might with them all be made ; 
But pray'd for love to share his foreign life. 
And shun all future chance of kindred strife. 
He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say : 
The letter miss'd her on her homeward way. ' 



In six hours Constance was within his arms ; 
Moved, flush' d, unlike her wonted calm of charms, 
And breathless — with uphfted hands outspread — 
Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, — 
' I knew that those who brought your message 

laugh' d, 
With poison of their own to point the shaft ; 
And this my own kind sister thought, yet loth 
Confess'd she fear'd 'twas true 3'ou had been 

wroth. 
But here you are, and smile on me : my pain 
Is gone, and Constance is herself again.' 
His ecstacy, it may be guess'd, was much : 
Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to 

touch. 
What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould 
What terror ! lest his few rash words, mistold, 
Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat : 
But calm'd again so soon its healthful beat, 
And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound, 
Composed hersel.f, she breathed composure round. 

Fair being ! with vi'hat sympathetic grace 
She heard, bewail'd, and pleaded .Julia's case ; 
Implored he would her dying wish attend, 
'And go,' she said, ' to-morrow with your friend; 
I'll wait for your return on England's shore. 
And then we'll cross the deep, and part no more.' 

To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew 
To Julia's call, and Constance urged anew 
That not to heed her now would be to bind 
A load of pain for life upon his mind. 
He went with Udoiph — from his Constance 

went — 
Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment 
Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to 

mock 
His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. 
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out, 
To watch at home, and follow straight his route. 
If aught of threaten'd change her health should 

show : 
— With Udoiph then he reach' d the house of woe. 

That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow 
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! 
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice. 
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; 
And whilst their falhng echoed to the wind, 
The wolfs long howl in dismal discord join'd ; 
While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds. 
That whirl'd like spirits waihngin their shrouds : 
Without was Nature's elemental din — 
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! 

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half, 
Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh ; 
And blest him, till she drew her latest sigh ! 
But lo ! while Udolph's bursts of agony. 
And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, 
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 
'Twas tidings, by his English messenger. 
Of Constance — brief and terrible they were. 
She still was living when the page set out 
From home, but whether now was left in doubt. 
Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief— 
Stunn'd into stupor more than wrung witn jrrief ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



139 



It was not strange ; for iii the humfin breast 
Two raaster-passions cannot co-exist, 
And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain 
Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 
'Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud 
That cover'd Julia made him first weep loud, 
And tear himself away from them that wept. 
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, 
Till, launch' d at sea, he dreamt that his soul's 

saint 
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, 
O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd 
The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, 
Till reaching home, terrific omen ! there 
The straw-laid street preluded his despair — 
The servant's look — the table that reveal'd 
His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd, 
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear 
That he had now to suifer — not to fear. 
He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel 
A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel ; 
Her death' s cause — he might make his peace with 

Heaven, 
Absolved from guilt, but never self- forgiven. 

The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief i 
'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief, 
To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek. 
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak : 
She bade him in the name of Heaven, forbear 
With self-reproach to deepen his despair : 
' 'Twas blame,' she said, ' I shudder to relate. 
But none of yours, that caused our darhng's fate ; 
Her mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw, 
Should Constance leave the land, she would 

withdraw 
Our house's charm against the world's neglect — 
The only gem that drew it some respect. 
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly 

spoke 
To change her purpose — grew incensed, and broke 
With execrations from her kneeling child. 
Start not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, 
Fcar'd that she should not long the scone outlive, 
Y"et bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive, 
rill then her ailment had been slight, or none ; 
But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on: 
Foreseeing their event, she dictated 
And sign'd these words for you.' The letter 

said — 

' Theodric, this is destiny above 
Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love '■ 
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne. 
For one true sister left me not forlorn ; 
And though you're absent in another land. 
Sent from me by my own well-meant command, 
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine 
As these clasp' d hands in blessing you now join: 
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — 
Ev'n now my sufferings are not very great ; 
And when your grief's first transports shall 

subside, 
I call upon your strength of soul and pride 
To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt, 
Love's glorying tribute — not forlorn regret. 
I charge my name with power to conjure up 
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cun. 



My pard'ning angel, at the gates of Heaven, 
Shall look not more regard than you have given 
To me ; and our hfe's union has been clad 
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. 
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance 

cast? 
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past ? 
No ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, 
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; 
And let contentment on your spirit shine, 
As if its peace were still a part of mine: 
For if you war not proudly with your pain, 
For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. 
But I conjure your manliness to bear 
My loss with noble spirit — not despair : 
I ask you by our love to promise this, 
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss — 
The latest from my living lips for yours.' — 

Words that will solace him while life endures . 
For though his spirit firom affliction's surge 
Could ne'er to life, as hfe had been, emerge. 
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate 
Rang sweetness, ev'n beneath the crush of fate, — 
That mind in whose regard all things were placed 
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced, 
That soul's example could not but dispense 
A portion of its own bless'd influence , 
Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway 
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away: 
And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with 

such woe. 
As if her spirit watch'd him still below." / 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
O'CONNOR'S CHILD; 

OR, THE "FLOWER OF LOVi; LIES BLEEDING." 

T. 
Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail* 
Was strung full high to notes of gladness ; 
But yet it often told a tale 
Of more prevailing sadness. 
Sad was the note, and wild its fall. 
As winds that moan at night forlorn 
Along the isles of Fioii-Gall, 
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, 
The harper told, how lone, how far 
From any mansion's twinkling star, 
From any path of social men, 
Or voice, but from the fox's den, 
The lady in the desert dwelt ; 
And yet no wrongs, nor fear she felt : 
Say, why should dwell in place so wild, 
O'Connor's pale and lovoh' child ? 

II. 
Sweet lady ! she no more inspires 
Green Erin's hearts with beauly's power. 
As, in the palace of her sires, 
She bloom'd a peerless flower. 

* InnisfaiU the anr.ifint, natiiH of Ireland. 



140 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Gone from her hand and bosom, gone 

The royal brooch, the jewell'd ring. 

That o'er her dazzUng whiteness shone, 

Like dews on Ulies of the Spring. 

Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne,* 

Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern. 

While yet, in Leinster unexplored, 

Her friends survive the Enghsh sword ; 

Why hngers she from Erin's host, 

So far on Galway's shipwreck' d coast? 

Why wanders she a huntress wild — 

O'Connor's pale and lovely child? 

in. 

And, fix'd on empty space, why burn 
Her eyes with momentary wildness ; 
And wherefore do they then return 
To more than woman's mildness ? 
Dishevell'd are her raven locks ; 
On Connocht Moran's name she calls ; 
And oft amidst the lonely rocks 
She sings sweet madrigals. 
Placed in the fox-glove and the moss, 
Behold a parted warrior's cross ! 
That is the spot where, evermore. 
The lady, at her shielingt door. 
Enjoys that, in communion sweet. 
The living and the dead can meet ; 
For, lo ! to lovelorn fantasy, 
The hero of her heart is nigh. 

IV. 
Bright as the bow that spans the storm 
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,t 
A son of light — a lovely form. 
He comes and makes her glad : 
Now on the grass-green turf he sits, 
His tassel'd horn beside him laid; 
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, 
The hunter and the deer a shade ! 
Sweet mourner ! those are shadows vam, 
That cross the twilight of her brain ; 
Yet she will tell you, she is blest. 
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd, 
More richly than in Aghrim's bower. 
When bards high praised her beauty's power. 
And kneeling pages offer' d up 
The morat§ in a golden cup. 

V. 
' A hero's bride ! this desert bower, 
It ill befits thy gentle breeding : 
And wherefore dost thou love this flower 
To call ' My love lies bleeding ?' 
This purple flower my tears have nursed — 
A hero's blood supplied its bloom : 
I love it, for it was the first 
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. 



* Kerne., the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In 
this sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Gainsford, 
in his Glorys of England, says, "They (the Irish) are 
desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man 
dead until his head be off." 

-(• Shieling, a rude cabin or hut. 

$ Yellow, dyed from salfron, was the favorite colour 
of the rncient Irish. When the Irish chieftains came 
to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, 
we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court 
in saSion-coloured uniforms. 

$ Moral, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed 
with honey. 



Oh ! hearken, stranger, to my voice I 
This desert mansion is my choice I 
And blest, though fatal, be the star 
That led me to its wilds afar : 
For here these pathless mountains free 
Gave shelter to my love and me ; 
And every rock and every stone 
Bare witness that he was my own. 

VI. 
" O'Connor's child, I was the bud 
Of Erin's royal tree of glory ; 
But woe to them that wrapt in blood 
The tissue of my story ! 
Still, as I clasp my burning brain, 
A death-scene rushes on my sight ; 
It rises o'er and o'er again. 
The bloody feud — the fatal night, 
When chafing Connocht Moran's scorn. 
They call'd my hero basely born ; 
And bade him choose a meaner bride 
Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 
Their tribe, they said, their high degree 
Was sung in Tara's psaltery ;* 



* .a'he pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, 
that one of the O'Neals being told that Barrett of Cas- 
tlemone had been there only 400 years, he replied, — 
that he hated the clown as if he had come there but 
yesterday. 

Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of 
the petty princes of Ireland. Very splendid and fabu- 
lous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of 
the pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery 
of Tara was the grand national register of Ireland. 
The grand epoch of political eminence in the early 
history of the Irish is the reign of their great and> 
favouritu monarch, 011am Fodlah, who reigned, ac- 
cording to Keating, about 950 years before the Chris- 
tian era. Under him was instituted the great Fes at 
Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention 
of the slates, or a parliament; the members of which 
were the Druids, and other learned men, who repre- 
sented the people in that assembly. Very minute ac- 
counts are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence 
and order of these entertainments; from which, if 
credible, we might collect the earliest traces of herald- 
ry that occur in history. To preserve order and re- 
gularity in the great number and variety of the mem- 
bers v/ho met on such occasions, the Irish historians 
inform us, that when the banquet was ready to be 
served up, the shield-bearers of the princes, and other 
members of the convention, delivered in their shields 
and targets, which were readily distinguished by the 
coats of arms emblazoned upon them. These were 
arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, 
and hung upon the walls on the right side of the table : 
and, upon entering the apartments, each member took 
his seat under his respective shield or target, without 
the slightest disturbance. The concluding days of the 
meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were 
spent in very free excess of conviviality; but the first 
six, they say, were devoted to the examination and set- 
tlement of the annals of the kingdom. These were 
publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the ap- 
probation of the assembly, they were transcribed into 
the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was 
called the Register, or Psalter of Tara. 

Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish 
fragment, found in Trinity-college, Dublin, in which 
the palace of the above assembly is thus described as 
it existed in the reign of Cormac : — 

"In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was 
nine hundred feet square ; the diameter of the sur- 
rounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart ; it con- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



141 



Witness their Eatli's victorious brand,* 
And Cathal of tlie bloody hand ; 
Glory (they said) and power and honour 
Were in the mansion of O'Connor : 
But he, my loved one, bore in field 
A meaner crest upon his shield. 

VII. 

"Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, 
That fiercely and triumphantly 
Ye Ixiught the English of the pale, 
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry ?t 
And what was it to love and me, 
That barons by your standard rode ; 
Or heal-firest for your jubilee 
Upon a hundred mountains glow'd ? 
What though the lords of tower and dome 
From Shannon to the North Sea foam, — 
Thought ye your iron hands of pride 
Could break the knot that love had tied ! 
No: — 'let the eagle change his plume, 
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 
But ties around this heart were spun 
That could not, would not, be undone ! 

VIII. 

" At bleating of the wild watch-fold. 
Thus sang my love — ' Oh ! come with me : 
Our bark is on the lake, behold 
Our steeds are f^sten'd to the tree. 



tained one hundred and fifty apartments ; one hundred 
and fiftj'' dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, 
and sixty men in each : the height was twenty-seven 
cubits i there were one hundred and fifty common 
drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests 
daily, besides princes, orators, men of science, en- 
gravers of gold and silver, carvers, modelers, and 
nobles. The Irish description of thebanqueting-hal! is 
thus translated : twelve stalls or divisions in each 
wing ; sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each 
tabic ; one hundred guests in all.' 

* Vide infra. 

t The house of O'Connor had a right to boast of 
their victories over the English. It was a chief of tiie 
O'Connor race who gave a check to the English cham- 
pion, De Courcy, so famous for his personal strength, 
and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in 
the presence of the kings of France and England, when 
the French champion declined the combat with him. 
Though ultimately conquered by the English under 
De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride 
of that name on a memorable occasion : viz., when 
Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bouvgo 
who won the battle of Athunrce, had become so inso- 
lent as to make e.\cessive demands upon the territories 
of Connaught, and to bid defiance to all the rights and 
properties reserved by the Irish chiefs, Aeth O'Connor, 
a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of 
the bloody hand, rose against the usurper, and defeated 
the English so severely, that their general died of 
chagrin after the battle. 

X The month of May is to this day called Mi Bea! 
tiennie, i. e. the month of Beat's fire, in the original 
language of Ireland, and hence I believe the name of 
the Beltan festival in the Highlands. These fires were 
lighted on the summits of mountains (the Irish anti- 
quaries say) in honour of the sun ; and are supposed, 
by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin 
of the Irish from some nation who worshipped Baal or 
Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of 
Cnoc Greine, i. e. the hill of the sun ; and on all are to 
be seen the ruins of Druidical altars. 



Come far from Caslle-Connor's clans — 
Come with thy belted forestere. 
And I, beside the lake of swans, 
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ; 
And build thy hut, and bring thee home 
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; 
And berries from the wood provide, 
And play my clarshech* by thy side. 
Then come, my love !' — How could I stayf 
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, 
And I pursued, by moonless skies. 
The hght of Connocht Moran's eyes. 

IX. 

" And fast and far, before the star 
Of day-apring, rush'd we through the glade, 
And saw at dawn the lofty bawnt 
Of Castle-Connor fade. 
Sweet was to us the hermitage 
Of this unplow'd, untrodden shore ; 
Like birds all joyous from the cage. 
For man's neglect we loved it more. 
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,' 
To search the game with hawk and spear ; 
While I, his evening food to dress. 
Would sing to him in happiness. 
But, oh, that midnight of despair ! 
When I w^as doomed to rend my hair : 
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow I 
The night to him, that had no morrow ! 

X. 
"When all was hush'd, at even-tide 
I heard the baying of their beagle ; 
'Be hush'd!' my Coimocht Moran cried, 
' 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.' 
Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ; 
Their bloody bands had tracked us out ; 
Up-listening starts our couchant hound — 
And hark ! again, that nearer shout 
Brings faster on the murderers. 
Spare — spare him' — Brazil — Desmond fierce ! 
In vain — no voice the adder charms ; 
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms. 
Another's sword has laid him low — 
Another's, and another's ; 
And every hand that dealt the blow — 
Ah me ! it was a brother's ! 
Yes, when his meanings died away. 
Their iron hands had dug the clay. 
And o'er his burial-turf they trod. 
And I beheld— Oh God ! Oh God ! 
His life-blood oozing from the sod ! 



* The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical in- 
strument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to be 
of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British 
islands. The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted 
with it during the residence of the Romans in their 
countrj', as on all their coins, on which musical instru- 
ments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, 
and not the British teylin, or harp. 

t Bawn,from the Teutonic Bawen — to construct and 
secure with branches of trees, was so called because 
the primitive Celtic fortification was made by digging 
a ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter 
fi-xing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of 
trees. This word is used by Spenser ; but it is inac- 
curately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an emi- 
nence 



142 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



XL 
" Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, 
Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave, 
Nor mass nor ulla-luUa* heard, 
Lamenting, soothe his grave. 
-Dragg'd to their hated mansion backj 
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay 
I knew not, for my soul was black, 
And knew no change of night or day. 
One night of horror round me grew ; 
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 
'Twas but when those grim visages, 
The angry brothers of my race, 
Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, 
And check'd my bosom's power to sob. 
Or when my heart with pulses drear, 
Beat hke a death-watch to my ear. 

XIL 

" But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse 
Did with a vision bright inspire : 
I woke, and felt upon my lips 
A prophetess's fire. 
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat — 
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, 
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, 
My guilty, trembling brothers round. 
Clad in the helm and shield they came ; 
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame 
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, 
And lighted up the midnight skies. 
The standard of O'Connor's sway 
Was in the turret where I lay ; 
That standard, with so dire a look, 
As ghastly shone the moon and pale, 
I gave, — that every bosom shook 
Beneath its iron mail. 

XIIL 

' ' And go ! (I cried) the combat seek, 
Ye hearts that unappalled bore 
The anguish of a sister's shriek, 
Go ! — and return no more ! 
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand 
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold 
The banner with victorious hand, 
Beneath a sister's curse unroU'd. 

stranger ! by my country's loss ! 
And by my love ! and by the cross ; 

1 swear I never could have spoke 
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke, 
But that a spirit o'er me stood, 

And fired me with the wrathful mood ; 
And frenzy to my heart was given, 
To speak the malison of Heaven. t 



* The Irish lamentation for the dead. 

+ If the wrath which 1 have ascribed to the heroine 
of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character 
as too unnaturally stript of patriotic and domestic 
affections, I must beg leave to plead the authority of 
Corneille in the representation of a similar passion : I 
allude to the denunciation of Caraille, in the tragedy 
of Horace. When Horace, accompanied by a soldier 
bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his 
sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his vic- 
tory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes 
at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two 
brothers ; but when she bursts forth into reproaches 
against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of 
the Curiatii, he exclaims : 



XIV. 

" They would have cross'd themselves, all mute 
They would have pray'd to burst the spell ; 
But at the stamping of my foot 
Each hand down powerless fell ! 
' And go to Athunree !'* I cried, 
' High lift the banner of your pride ! 



" O Ciei ! qui vjt jamais une pareille rage : 
Crois-tu done que je sois insensible a I'outrage, 
Que je soutfre en mon sang ce mortel deshonneur ! 
Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur, 
Et prefere du moins au souvenir d'un homms 
Ce que doit ta naissance aux interets de Rome." 

At the mention of Rome, Camillc breaks out into 
this apostrophe : 

"Rome, I'unique objet de mon ressentiment ! 
Rome, a qui vient ton bias d'immolermon amant! 
Rome, qui t'a vu naitre et que ton C03ur adore ! 
Rome, enfin, que je hai's, parce qu'elle t'honore ! 
Puissent tous ses voisins, ensemble conjures, 
Sapper ses fondements encore mal assures; 
Et, si ce n'est assez de toute I'ltalie, 
Que rOrient, contre elle, a I'Occident s'allie ; 
Que cent peuples unis, des bouts de I'univers 
Passent, pour la detruire, et les monts et les mers: 
Qu'elle-meme sur soi renverse ses murailles, 
Et de ses propres mains dechire ses entrailles ; 
Que le courroux du Ciel, allume par mes voeux, 
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux ! 
Puiss5-je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre, 
Voir see maisons en cendre, et tes lauriers en poudre ; 
Voir le dernier Romain a son dernier soupir, 
Moi seule en etre cause, et mourir de plaisir!" 
* In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish pre- 
sented to Pope John the Twenty-Second a memorial 
of their sufferings under the English, of which the 
language exhibits all the strength of despair.— "Ever 
since the Englisii (say they) first appeared upon our 
coasts, they ertered our territories under a certain 
specious pretence of charity, and external hypocritical 
show of religion, endeavouring at the same time, by 
every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root 
and branch, and without any other right than thai of the 
strongest ; they so far have succeeded by base fradu- 
lence and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our 
fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and to 
take refuge like wild beasts in the mountains, the 
woods, and the morasses of the country; nor even can 
the caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable 
avarice. They pursue us even into these frightful 
abodes ; endeavouring to dispossess us of the wild un- 
cultivated rocks, and arrogate to themselves the pro- 
perty^ of every place on which we can stamp the figure 
of our feet." 

The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to 
regain their native independence, was made at the 
time when they called over the brother of Robert 
Bruce from Scotland. — William de Bourgo, brother to 
the Earl of Ulster, and Richard de Bermingham, were 
sent against the main body of the native insurgents, 
who were headed rather than commanded by Felim 
O'Connor. The important battle, which decided the 
subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August, 
1315. It was the bloodiest that ever was fought be- 
tween the two nations, and continued throughout the 
whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The 
Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great 
enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand mon, among 
whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tra- 
dition states, that after this terrible day, the O'Connor 
family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, 
that throughout all Connaught not one of the name 
remained, except Felim's brother, who was capable 
of bearing arms. 



xMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



143 



Bu; know that where its sheet unrolls, 
The weight of blood is on your souls ! 
Go where the havoc of your kerne 
Shall float as high as luountain fern ! 
Men shall no more your mansion know ; 
The nettles on your hearth shall grow ! 
Dead, as the green oblivious flood 
That mantles by your walls, shall be 
The glory of O'Connor's blood ! 
Aveay ! away to Athunree ! 
Where, downward when the sun shall fall, 
The raven's wing shall be your pall ! 
And not a vassal shall unlace 
The vizor from your dying face !' 

XV. 
' ' A bolt that overhung our dome 
Suspended till my curse was given, 
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, 
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. 
Dire was the look that o'er their backs 
The angry parting brothers threw : 
But now, behold ! like cataracts, 
Come down the hills in view 
O'Connor's plumed partisans; 
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans 
Were marching to their doom : 
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, 
A flash of hghtning o'er them cross'd, 
And all again was gloom ! 

XVI. 
" Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall ; 
I found the helmet of my chief, 
His bow still hanging on our wall, 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 
This desert place a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 
For any heart of living mould. 
No ! for I am a hero's child ; 
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ; 
And still my home this mansion make, 
Of all unheeded and unheeding, 
And cherish, for my warrior's sake — 
' The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

A NAVAL ODE. 

Ye mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas, 

Whose flag has brav'd, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! — 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave ! 



Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy tempests blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain- waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her- native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy tempests blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn. 

Till danger's troubled night depart. 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean -warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd. 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flash' d the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 



144 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Few, few, shall part when many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every tmf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : 
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight re- 
pairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

Sad is my fate I said the heart-broken stranger, 
The wild deer and. wolf to a covert can flee ; 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger — 
A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the 
sweet hours. 

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers. 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken. 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 

But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken. 
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
more. 

Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase 
me? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that look' don my childhood? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? 
Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure, 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without 
measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing '. 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de- 
votion, — 
Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh !* 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

And I'll give thee a silver pound, 
To row us o'er the ferry." — 



* Ireland my darling,— Ireland for ever. 



" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle 

This dark and stormy water?" 
" Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men 

Three days we've fied together, 
For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ?" 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 

" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready: 
It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady : 

" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew ioud apace. 
The water- wraith was shrieking ;* 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind. 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men. 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat, has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, oh I too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing ; 
Lord Ulhn reach' d that fatal shore : 

His wrath was changed to waihng. 

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade. 

His child he did discover : 
One lovely hand she stretch' d for aid. 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back !" he cried, in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter !— -0 my daughter!" — 

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 



* The evil spirit of the waters. 



'vilSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



145 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — ^for the night-cloud had 
lour'd, 
And the sentmel stars set their watch in the sky; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
power'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Ilethought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 
I heard my own mountahi-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 
swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never 
to part : 
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of 
heart. 

Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and 
worn; 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay : 
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

TRiTTMrHAL arch, that fiU'st the sky, 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art — 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight. 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 

Thy form to please me so. 
As when I dreamt of gems and gold 

Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws. 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabUng dreams, 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 
19 



When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's grey fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yetuntrod. 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
The first made anthem rang, 

On earth deliver'd from the deep, 
And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy, 
Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings. 

When glittering in the fi-eshen'd fields 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain tower, and town, 

Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom 

The Sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold. 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. 

The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands ; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ' 



146 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm pass'd by. 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 



What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his will ; — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail' d on human hearts. 

Go — let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies. 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death— • 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No I it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine; 

By him recall'd to breath. 
Who captive led captivity. 
Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — 

And took the sting from Death ! 

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the Night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw' St the last of Adam's race. 

On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
The dark'ning universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



ODE TO WINTER. 

When first the fiery-mantled Sun 
His heavenly race began to run ; 
Round the earth and ocean blue, 
His children four the Seasons flew. 
First, in green apparel dancing, 

The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; 
Rosy Summer next advancing, 

Rush'd into her sire's embrace : 
Her bright-hair' d sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, 

On India's citron-cover' d isles: 
More remote and buxom-brown 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his 
throne ; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 

But howHng Winter fled afar, 
To hills that prop the polar star, 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride. 
With barren darkness by his side. 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflow'ring Nature's grassy robe, 

And trampling on her faded form : — 
Till light's returning lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
Of power to pierce his raven plume. 

And crystal-cover' d shield. 

sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye, 
Implores thy dreadful deity. 
Archangel ! power of desolalion ! 

Fast descending as thou art. 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart ? 
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, 

And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 

Nor freeze the wretch's falhng tear ;— 
To shuddering want's unmantled bed 
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
And gently on the orphan head 
Of innocence descend. 

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep. 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes 

Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
Oh, winds of Winter I fist ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan ; 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air. 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



147 



Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 
May spare the victim fallen low ; 

But man will ask no truce to death,- 
No bounds to human woe.* 



REULLURA.t 

Star of the morn and eve, 

Reullura shone like thee, 
And well for her might Aodh grieve, 

The dark-attired Culdee.t 
Peace to their shades ! the pure Culdees 

Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, 
Ere yet an island of her seas 

By foot of Saxon monk was trode. 
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry 

Were barr'd from holy wedlock's tie, 
'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, 

In lona preach' d the word with power, 
And Reullura, beauty's star. 

Was the partner of his bower. 

But, Aodh, the roof lies low. 

And the thistle-down waves bleaching, 
And the bat flits to and fro 

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; 
And fallen is each column'd aisle 

Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 
'Twas near that temple's goodly pile 

That honour' d of men they dwelt. 
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, 
And bright Reullura' s eyes oft saw 

The veil of fate uphfted. 
Alas, with what visions of awe 

Her soul in that hour was gifted — 

When pale in the temple and faint, 

With Aodh she stood alone 
By the statue of an aged Saint ! 

Fair sculptured weis the stone, 
It bore a crucifix ; 

Fame said it once had graced 
A Christian temple, which the Picts 

In the Britons' land laid waste : 
The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, 
Had hither the holy relic brought. 
Reullura eyed the statue's face. 

And cried, " It is he shall come, 
Even he, in this very place, 

To avenge my martyrdom. 



* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 
1800, before the conclusion of hostilities, 
f Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star." 
t The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, 
and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the 
eleventh century. They were of Irish origin ; and their 
monastery, on the island of lona or Toolmkill, was the 
seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyte- 
rian writers have wished to prove them to have been 
a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church 
and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they 
were not enemies to Episcopacy ; but that they were 
not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later 
periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances 
respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which 
account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish 
sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons. 



' ' For, woe to the Gael people ! 

Ulvfagre is on the main. 
And lona shall look from tower and steeple 

On the coming ships of the Dane ; 
And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks 

With the spoiler's grasp entwine ? 
No ! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks 

And the deep sea shall be mine. 
Baffled by me shall the Dane return. 
And here shall his torch in the temple bnm, 
Until that holy man shall plow 

The waves from Innisfail. 
His sail is on the deep e'en now, 

And swells to the southern gale," 

" Ah ! knowest thou not, my bride," 

The holy Aodh said, 
" That the Saint whose form we stand besid© 

Has for ages slept with the dead ?" 
" He liveth, he hveth," she said again, 

" For the span of his life tenfold extends 
Beyond the wonted years of men. 

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends 
That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth | 
The oak is decayed with old age on earth. 
Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him ; 

And his parents remember the day of dread 
When the sun on the cross look'd dim, 

And the graves gave up their dead. 

" Yet, preaching from chme to clime, 

He hath roam'd the carih for ages, 
And hither he shall come in time 

When the wrath of the heathen rages, 
In time a remnant from the sword — 

Ah ! but a remnant to deliver ; 
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord ! 

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. 
Lochlin,* appall'd, shall put up her steel, 
And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel ; 
Safe shall thou pass through her hundred ships. 

With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, 
And the Lord will instruct thy lips 

To preach in Innisfail."'!" 

The sun, now about to set. 

Was burning o'er Tiriee, 
And no gathering cry rose yet 

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea. 
Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip 

Their oars beneath the sun. 
And the phantom of many a Danish ship. 

Where ship there yet was none. 
And the shield of alarm t was dumb, 
Nor did their warning till midnight come. 
When watch-fires burst from across 

From Rona and Uist and Skey, 
To tell that the ships of the Dane 

And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. 

Our islesmen arose from slumbers. 

And buckled on their arms ; 
But few, alas ! were their numbers 

To Lochlin' s mailed swarms. 



* Denmark. t Ireland. 

X Striking the shield was an ancient mode of conTO • 
cation to war among the Gael. 



i48 



THOMAS CAMPBELL, 



And the blade of the bloody Norse 

Has fill'd the shores of the Gael 
With many a floatmg corse, 

And with many a woman's wail. 
They have lighted the islands with Ruin's torch. 
And the holy men of lona's chiu"ch 
In the temple of God lay slain ; 

All but Aodh, the last Culdee, 
But bound with many an iron chain, 

Bound in that church was he. 

And where is Aodh's bride ? 

Rocks of the ocean flood ! 
Plunged she not from your heights in pride, 

And mock'd the men of blood ? 
Then Ulvfagre and his bands 

In the temple lighted their banquet up. 
And the piint of their blood-red hands 

Was left on the altar-cup. 
'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, 
" Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, 
Or I'll hew thee hmb from hmb." 

As he spoke the bell struck three, 
And every torch grew dim 

That lighted their revelry. 

But the torches again burnt bright. 

And brighter than before. 
When an aged man of majestic height 

Enter' d the temple door. 
Hush'd was the revellers' sound, 

They were struck as mute as the dead, 
And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound 

Of his footstep's measured tread. 
Nor word was spoken by one beholder, 
While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder, 
And stretching his arms— as eath 

Unriveted Aodh's bands. 
As if the gyves had been a wreath 

Of willows in lus hands. 

Ail saw the stranger's simihtu,de 

To the ancient statue's form ; 
The Saint before his own image stood, 

And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm. 
Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver 

Their chief, and shouting with one accord, 
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver. 

They lifted the spear and sword. 
And levell'd their spears in rows. 
But down went axes and spears and bows, 
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd, 

The archer's hand on the string was stopt, 
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind. 

Their lifted weapons dropt. 

The Saint then gave a signal mute. 

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not, 
He came and stood at the statue's foot, 

Spelt-riveted to the spot. 
Till hands invisible shook the wall, 

And the tottering image was dash'd 
DoMni from its lofty pedestal. 

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash' d — 
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, 
Itcrush'd as millstone crushes the grain. 
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each 

Of the Heathen trembled round. 



And the pauses amidst his speech 
Were as awful as the sound : 

" Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, 

" And tell the nations abroad. 
How the fiercest of your herd has died 

That slaughter' d the flock of God. 
Gather him bone by bone, 

And take with you o'er the flood 
The fi-agments of that avenging stone 

That drank his Heathen blood. 
These are the spoils from lona's sack, 
The only spoils ye shall carry back ; 
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword 

Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock. 
And I come in the name of the Lord 

To deliver a remnant of his flock. 

A remnant was call'd together, 

A doleful remnant of the Gael, 
And the Saint in the ship that had brought him 
hither 

Took the mourners to Innisfail. 
Unscathed they left lona's strand, 

When the opal morn first flush' d the sky, 
For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand 

And look'd on them silently; 
Save from their hiding-places came 
Orphans and mothers, child and dame : 
But alas ! when the search for Reullura spread, 

No answering voice was given. 
For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, 

And her spirit was in Heaven. 



THE TURKISH LADY 

'TwAS the hour when rites unholy 
Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer. 

And the star that faded slowly 
Left to dews the freshen'd air. 

Day her sultry fires had wasted. 
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose : 

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted 
Half oblivion of his woes. 

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace 
Came an eastern lady bright : 

She, in spite of tyrants jealous, 
Saw and loved an English knight. 

" Tell me, captive, why in anguish 
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, 

Where poor Christians as they languish 
Hear no sound of sabbath bell?" — 

" 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat, 
When the Crescent shone afar, 

Like a pale disastrous planet 
O'er the purple tide of war — 

" In that day of desolation, 

Lady, I was captive made 
Bleeding for my Christian nation; 

By the walls of high Belgrade." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



149 



" Captive ! could the brightest jewel 
From my turban set thee free?" — 

" Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel, 
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee. 

" Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thee 
Christian chmes should we behold ?" 

" Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thee 
Were thy ransom paid in gold !" 

Now in Heaven's blue expansion 
Rose the midnight star to view, 

When to quit her father's mansion 
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu ! 

"Fly we then, while none discover ! 

Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride !" 
Soon at Rhodes the British lover 

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern Bride. 



THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolhng Danube 

Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : — 
" Oh, whither," she cried, " hast thou wander'd, 
my lover? 
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the 
shore ? 

"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that 
sigh'd!" 
All mournful she hasten' d, nor wander'd she 
far, 
When bleeding and low, on the heath she 
descried. 
By the light of the, moon, her poor wounded 
Hussar ! 

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was 
streaming. 
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a 
scar ! 
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming. 
That melted in love, and that kindled in war ! 

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight ! 

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! 
"Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sor- 
rowful night, 
To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded 
Hussar ?' ' 

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's 
mercy, relieving 
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to 
mourn." 
" Ah, no f the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! 
No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! 

"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true ! 

Ye babes of my love that await me afar !" 
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu. 

When he sunk in her arms — the poor wounded 
Hussar ! 



THE BRAVE ROLAND.* 

The brave Roland ! — the brave Roland ! — 
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand 

That he had fallen in fight ; 
And thy faithful bosom swoon' d with pain 
O loveliest maiden of Allemayne ! 

For the loss of thy own true knight. 

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil, 
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale? 

For her vow had scarce been sworn. 
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, 
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung — 

'Twas her own dear warrior's horn I 

Woe ! woe I each heart shall bleed — shall break! 
She would have hung upon his neck, 

Had he come but yester-even : 
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms 
That shall never, never fill his arms, 

Or meet him but in heaven. 

Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true — 
He could not bid that spot adieu ; 

It was dear still 'midst his woes ; 
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air 
And to think she blest him in her prayer, 

When the Halleluiah rose. 

There's yet one window of that pile. 
Which he built above the Nun's green isle ; 

Thence sad and oft look'd he 
(When the chant and organ sounded slow) 
On the mansion of his love below, 

For herself he might not see. 

She died 1 — He sought the battle-plain! 
Her image fiU'd his dying brain, 

When he fell and wish'd to fall : 
And her name was in his latest sigh. 
When Roland, the flower of chivalry, 

Expired at Roncevall. 



THE SPECTRE BOAT. 

A BALLAD. 

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid 
forlorn. 

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blush- 
ing cheek from scorn. 

One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted 
bower of love. 

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and 
the birds sang sweet above. 



* The tradition which forms the substance of these 
stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient 
tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles 
above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation 
which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which 
his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded 
account of his death. Whatever may be thought of 
the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recol- 
lected with pleasure by every one who has visited the 
romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Roland- 
seck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Khine,, 
where a nunnery still stands. 



ISO 



THOMAS CAMPBELL, 



But the scene was swiftly changed into a church- 


Ye cruel, cruel, that combined 


yard's dismal view, 


The guiltless to pursue ; 


And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from 


My Gilderoy was ever kind, 


love's delicious hue. 


He could not injure you ! 


What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, 




shuddering, pale, and dumb, 


A long adieu ! but where shall fly 


Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew 


Thy widow all forlorn. 


his hour was come. 


When every mean and cruel eye 




Regards my woe with scorn ? 


'Twas now the dead- watch of the night — the 




helm was lash'd a-lee, 


Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears, 


And the ship rode where Mount ^Etna lights the 


And hate thine orphan boy ; 


deep Levantine sea ; 


Alas ! his infant beauty wears 


When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a 


The form of Gilderoy. 


woman in her shroud, 




Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold. 


Then will I seek the dreary mound 


stood up and spoke aloud : — 


That wraps thy mouldering clay, 




And weep and linger on the ground, 


"Come, traitor, down, for whom my ghost still 


And sigh my heart away. 


wanders unforgiven ! 




Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke 




my peace with Heaven !" — 




It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to 
meet her call, 




THE RITTER BANN. 


Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gaz- 
ing serpent's thrall. 


The Ritter Bann from Hungary 




Came back, renown'd in arms. 


You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk 


But scorning jousts of chivalry 


daunted from the sight. 


And love and ladies' charms. 


For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue 




with hideous light ; 


While other knights held revels, he 


Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving 


Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom. 


of her hand. 


And in Vienna's hostelrie 


And round they went, and down they went, as 


Slow paced his lonely room. 


the cock crew from the land. 






There enter' d one whose face he knew,— 




Whose voice, he was aware. 




He oft at mass had Msten'd to, 


GILDEROY. 


In the holy house of prayer. 


The last, the fatal hour is come. 


'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monlta. 


That bears my love from me : 


A fresh and fair old man ; 


I hear the dead note of the drum. 


His reverend air arrested even 


I mark the gallows' tree ! 


The gloomy Ritter Bann. 


The bell has toll'd : it shakes my heart ; 


But seeing with him an ancient dame 


The trumpet speaks thy name ; 


Come clad in Scotch attire, 


And must my Gilderoy depart 


The Ritter's colour went and came. 


To bear a death of shame ? 


And loud he spoke in ire. 


No bosom trembles for thy doom ; 


" Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, 


No mourner wipes a tear ; 


Name not her name to me ; 


The gallows' foot is all thy tomb. 


I wish it blotted from my brain : 


The sledge is all thy bier. 


Art poor ? — take alms, and flee." 


Oh, Gilderoy ! bethought we then 


" Sir Knight," the Abbot interposed, 


So soon, so sad to part. 


" This case your ear demands ;" 


When first in Roslin's lovely glen 


And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed 


You triumph'd o'er my heart? 


In both her trembling hands : 


Your locks they ghtter'd to the sheen, 


" Remember, each his sentence waits; 


Your hunter garb was trim ; 


And he that shall rebut 


And graceful was the riband green 


Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates 


That bound your manly limb ! 


Of Mercy shall be shut. 


Ah ! little thought I to deplore 


" You wedded undispensed by Church, 


Those Hmbs in fetters bound ; 


Your cousin Jane in Spring ; — 


Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, 


In Autumn, when you went to search 


The midnight hammer sound. 


For churchmen's pardoning. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



151 



" Her house denounced your marriage-band, 

Betrothed her to De Grey, 
And the ring you put upon her hand 

Was wrench'd by force away. 

" Then wept your Jane upon my neck. 
Crying, ' Help me, nurse, to flee 

To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;' 
But word arrived — ah me ! — 

" You were not there ; and 'twas their threat, 

By foul means or by fair, 
To-morrow morning was to set 

The seal on her despair. 

" I had a son, a sea-boy, in 

A ship at Hartland bay ; 
By his aid, from her cruel kin 

I bore my bird away. 

"To Scotland from the Devon's 

Green myrtle shores we fled ; 
And the Hand that sent the ravens 

To Elijah, gave us bread. 

*' She wrote you by my son, but he 

From England sent us word 
You had gone into some far country. 

In grief and gloom he heard. 

"Fojr they that wrong' d you, to elude 

Your wrath, defamed my child; 
And you — ay, blush. Sir, as you should — 

Believed, and were beguiled. 

" To die but at your feet, she vow'd 

To roam the world ; and we 
Would both have sped and begg'd our bread, 

But so it might not be. 

"For when the snow-storm beat our roof, 

She bore a boy. Sir Bann, 
Who grew as fair your likeness proof 

As child e'er grew hke man. 

" 'Twas smiling on that babe one morn. 
When heath bloom' d on the moor. 

Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn 
As he hunted past our door. 

" She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane 

And roused his mother's pride ; 
Who came to us in high disdain, 

' And Where's the face,' she cried, 

" ' Has witch' d my boy to wish for one 

So wretched for his wife ? — 
Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son 

Has sworn to take his life.' 

" Her anger sore dismay'd us, 
For our mite was wearing scant. 

And, unless that dame would aid us. 
There was none to aid our want. 

" So I told her, weeping bitterly, 

What all our woes had been ; 
And, though she was a stern ladle 

The tears stood in her een. 



" And she housed us both when cheerfully 

My child to her had sworn, 
That even if made a widow, she 

Would never wed Kinghorn." 

Here paused the nurse, and then began 

The Abbot, standing by : 
" Three months ago, a wounded man 

To our abbey came to die. 

" He heard me long, with ghastly eyes 

And hand obdurate clench'd. 
Speak of the worm that never dies. 

And the five that is not quench' d. 

"At last by what this scroll attests 

He left atonement brief. 
For years of anguish to the breasts 

His guilt had wrung with grief. 

" ' There lived,' he said, ' a fair young daitie 

Beneath my mother's roof; 
I loved her, but against my flame 

Her purity was proof. 

" ' I feign'd repentance, friendship pure ; 

That mood she did not check, 
But let her husband's miniature 

Be copied from her neck. 

" ' As means to search him, my deceit 

Took care to him was borne 
Nought but his picture's counterfeit. 

And Jane's reported scorn. 

" ' The treachery took ; she waited wild; 

My slave came back and lied 
Whate'er I wished ; she clasp'd her child. 

And swoon'd, and all but died. 

" ' I felt her tears for years, and years 

Quench not my flame, but stir ; 
The very hate I bore her m.Eite 

Increased my love for her. 

" ' Fame told us of his glory, while 

Joy flush'd the face of Jane ; 
And while she bless'd his name, her smile 

Struck fire unto my brain. 

" ' No fears could damp ; I reach'd the camp, 

Sought out its champion ; 
And if my broad- sword fail'd at last, 

'Twas long and well laid on. 

' 'This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, 

My foe's the Ritter Bann.'— — 
The wafer to his lips was borne, 

And we shrived the dying man. 

" He died not till you went to fight 

The Turks at Warradein ; 
But I see my tale has changed you pale."— 

The Abbot went for wine ; 

And brought a little page, who pour'd 

It out, and knelt and smiled : — 
The stunn'd knight saw himself restored 

To childhood in his child ; 



162 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, 

Laugh' d loud and wept anon, 
And with a shower of kisses press' d 

The darUng httle one. 

" And where went Jane ?" — " To a nunnery, 
Sir- 
Look not again so pale — 

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."— 
" And has she ta'en the veil ?" 

" Sit down. Sir," said the priest, " I bar 
Rash words." — They sat all three, 

And the boy play' d with the knight's broad star, 
As he kept him on his knee. 

" Think ere you ask her dwelling-place, " 

The Abbot further said ; 
" Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face 

More deep than cloister's shade. 

" Grief may have made her what you can 

Scarce love perhaps for life." 
" Hush, Abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, 

" Or tell nje where's my wife." 

The priest undid two doors that hid 

The inn's adjacent room, 
And there a lovely woman stood. 

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. 

One moment may with bhse repay 

Unnumber'd hours of pain ; 
Such was the throb and mutual sob 

Of the Knight embracing Jane. 



SONG, 



When Napoleon was flying 

From the field of Waterloo, 
A British soldier, dying, 

To his brother bade adieu ! 

"And take," he said, "this token 
To the maid that owns my faith. 

With the words that I have spoken 
In aflfection's latest breath." 

Sore mourn' d the brother's heart, 
When the youth beside him fell; 

But the trumpet warn'd to part, 
And they took a sad farewell. 

There was many a friend to lose him. 
For that gallant soldier sigh'd ; 

But the maiden of his bosom 

Wept when all their tears were dried. 



THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. 

O LEAVE this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechentree! 
Though bush or flowret never grow 
My dark unwarming shade below ; 



Nor summer bud perfume the dew 

Of rosy blush or yellow hue ; 

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born. 

My green and glossy leaves adorn , 

Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 

Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ; 

Yet leave this barren spot to me : 

Spare, woodman, spare the beeehen treat 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green ; 
And many a wintry wind have stood 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude. 
Since childhood in m.y pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour, 
Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rapture made ; 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carved many a long-forgotten name. 
Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound. 
First breathed upon this sacred ground : 
By all that Love has whisper'd here, 
Or Beauty heard wdth ravish'd ear ; 
As Love's own altar honour me. 
Spare, woodman, spare the beeehen tree. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallow'd ground — where, moum'd and 

miss'd, 
The lips repose our love has kias'd ; — 
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't 

Yon church-yard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
The spot where love's first links were wound. 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool, 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. "" 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind— 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



153 



Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 
Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder suUies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colours planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine — 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not — ■ 
The heart alone can make divine 

Rehgion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That man can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. 
And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn. 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallow'd ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
20 



Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass' d round ; 
And your high-priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 



CAROLINE, 

PART I. 



I'll bid the hyacinth to blow, 
I'll teach my grotto green to be ; 

And sing my true love, all below 
The holly bower and myrtle-tree. 

There all his wild -wood sweets to bring, 
The sweet south wind shall wander by, 

And with the music of his wing 
Delight my rustling canopy. 

Come to my close and clustering bower, 

Thou spirit of a milder clime. 
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, 

Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme. 

With all thy rural echoes come, 

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, 
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum. 

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. 

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, 

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd. 
Come to my blossom-woven shade. 

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. 

For sure from some enchanted isle. 
Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, 

Where pure and happy spirits smile, 
Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould; 

From some green Eden of the deep. 
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, 

Where tears of rapture lovers weep. 
Endear' d, undoubting, undeceived ; 

From some sweet paradise afar. 
Thy music wanders, distant, lost — 

Where Nature lights her leading star, 
And love is never cross' d. 

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers. 
If back thy rosy feet should roam, 

To revel with the cloudless Hours 
In Nature's more propitious home. 

Name to thy loved Elysian groves, 
That o'er enchanted spirits twine, 

A fairer form than cherub loves. 
And let the name be Caroline. 

TAKT II. 

TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 

Companion of retiring day. 
Why at the closing gates of Heaven, 

Beloved star, dost thou delay ? 



1:54 



THOMAS CAMPBELL, 



So fair thy pensile beauty burns, 

When soft the tear of twilight flows ; 

So due thy phghted love returns, 
To chambers brighter than the rose ; 

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, 
So kind a star thou seem'st to be. 

Sure some enamour' d orb above 
Descends and burns to meet with thee. 

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour. 
When all unheavenly passions fly, 

Chased by the soul-subduing power 
Of Love's delicious witchery. 

O ! sacred to the fall of day, 
Queen of propitious stars, appear. 

And early rise, and long delay. 
When Caroline herself is here ! 

Shine on her chosen green resort. 

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 

And wanton flowers, that well may court 
An Angel's feet to tread them down. 

Shine on her sweetly-scented road. 
Thou star of evening's purple dome. 

That lead' St the nightingale abroad, 
And guidest the pilgrim to his home. 

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath 
Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. 

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, 
Her silken tresses darkly flow, 

And fall upon her brow so fair, 
Like shadows on the mountain snow. 

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline. 
In converse sweet, to wander far, 

O bring with thee my Caroline, 
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 



FIELD FLOWERS. 

Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis 

true. 
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, 

f or ye waft me to summers of old, 
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy 

delight, 
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my 
sight. 
Like treasures of silver and gold. 

I love you for lulling me back into dreams 
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing 
streams, 
And of birchen glades breathing their baJm, 
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine 

remote. 
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's 
note 
Made music that sweeten'd the calm. 



Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 

Than ye speak to my heart, httle wildings of June : 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my 
mind, 

And your blossoms were part of her spell. 

Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes ; 
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, 

Can the wild water- hly restore ! 
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks 

In the vetches that tangled their shore ! 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear 
Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless 



With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 
And I wish you to grow on my tomb, 



DIRGE OF WALLACE. 

They lighted a taper at the dead of night, 

And chanted their holiest hymn ; 
But her brow and her bosom were damp with 
affright. 

Her eye was all sleepless and dim ! 
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, 

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, 
When her curtain had shook of its own accord ; 
And the raven had flapp'd at her window- board, 
To tell of her warrior's doom ! 

" Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray 

For the soul of my knight so dear ; 
And call me a widow this wretched day. 

Since the warning of God is here ! 
For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep : — 

The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die : 
His valorous heart they have wounded deep ; 
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep, 

For Wallace of Elderslie !" 

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, 

Ere the loud matin-bell was rung. 
That a trumpet of death on an EngUsh tower 

Had the dirge of her champion sung ! 
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red 

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain. 
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed ; 
No weeping was there when his bosom bled — 

And his heart was rent in twain ! 

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear, 

Was true to that knight forlorn ; 
And the hosts of a thousand were scatter' d like 
deer. 
At the blast of the hunter's horn : 
When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought 
field 
With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native 
land ; 
For his lance was not shiver' d on helmet o' 
shield — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



155 



And thesword that seem'd fit for Archangel to 


Quoth Jacquez, " That were sorry cheer 


wield, 


For men fatigued and dusty ; 


Was light in his terrible hand ! 


And if you supp'd on crusts, I fear 




You'd go to bed but crusty." 


Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace 




wight 


So forth he brought a flask of rich 


For his long-loved country die, 


Wine fit to feast Silenus, 


The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight 


And viands, at the sight of which 


Than Wallace of Eldershe ! 


They laugh' d hke two hyenas. 


But the day of his glory shall never depart. 




His head unentomb'd shall with glory be 


Alternately, the host and spouse 


balm'd, 


Regaled each pardon -gauger. 


From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall 


Who told them tales right marvellous, 


start : 


And lied as for a wager — 


Though the raven has fed on his mouldering 




heart, 


'Bout churches like balloons convey'd 


A nobler was never embalm' d ! 


With aeronautic martyrs ; 




And wells made warm, where holy maid 




Had only dipt her garters. 




And if their hearers gaped, I guess. 


THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 


With jaws three inch asunder, 




'Twas partly out of weariness, 


A TALE. 


And partly out of wonder. 


When honest men confess' d their sins, 


Then striking up duets, the freres 


And paid the church genteelly, 


Went on to sing in matches. 


In Burgundy two capuchins 


From psalms to sentimental airs. 


Lived jovially and freely. 


From these to glees and catches. 


They march'd about from place to place, 


At last they would have danced outright, 


With shrift and dispensation ; 


Like a baboon and tame bear. 


And mended broken consciences. 


If Jacquez had not drunk Good Night, 


Soul-tinkers by vocation. 


And' shown them to their chamber. 


On^ friar was Father Boniface, 


The room was high, the host's was nigh : 


And he ne'er knew disquiet. 


Had wife or he suspicion 


Save when condemn' d to saying grace 


That monks would make a raree-show 


O'er mortifying diet. 


Of chinks in the partition ? — 


The other was lean Dominick, 


Or that two confessors would come, 


Whose slender form, and sallow. 


Their holy ears outreaching 


Would scarce have made a candlewick 


To conversations as humdrum 


For Boniface's tallow. 


Almost as their own preaching ? 


Albeit, he tippled Hke a fish. 


Shame on you, friars of orders grey, 


Though not the same potation ; 


That peeping knelt, and wriggling, 


And mortal man ne'er clear'd a dish 


And when ye should have gone to pray, 


With nimbler mastication. 


Betook yourselves to giggling ! 


Those saints without the shirts arrived, 


But every deed will have its meed : 


One evening late, to pigeon 


And hark ! what information 


A country pair for alms, that lived 


Has made the sinners, in a trice. 


About a league from Dijon ; 


Look black with consternation. 


Whose supper-pot was set to boil 


The farmer on a hone prepares 


On fagots briskly crackling : 


His knife, a long and keen one ; 


The friars enter'd with a smile 


And talks of kiUing both the freres , 


To Jacquez and to Jacqueline. 


The fat one and the lean one ; 


They bow'd and bless'd the dame, and then 


To-morrow by the break of day, 


In pious terms besought her 


He orders, loo, saltpetre 


To give two holy-minded men 


And pickling tubs But, reader, stay. 


A meal of bread and water. 


Our host was no ui:in-eater. 


For water and a crust they crave, 


The priests knew not that country-folks 


Those mouths that, even on Lent days. 


Gave pigs the name of friars ; 


Scarce knew the taste of water, save 


But startled, witless of the joke, 


When watering for dainties. 


As if they trod on briers. 



156 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread, 

The hair of either craven 
Had stood erect upon his head, 

But that their heads were shaven. 

" What ! pickle and smoke us hmb by limb? 

God curse him and his larders ! 
St. Peter will bedevil him 

If he saltpetre friars. 

" Yet, Dominick, to die !— the bare 

Idea shakes one oddly ; 
Yes, Boniface, 'tis time we wcFe 

Beginning to be godly. 

" Would that, for absolution's sake, 

Of all our sins and cogging, 
We had a whip to give and take 

A last kind mutual flogging. 

" O Dominick! thy nether end 

Should bleed for expiation. 
And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend, 

A glorious flagellation." 

But bavins; ne'er a switch, poor souls ! 

They bow'd like weeping willows, 
And told the Saints long rigmaroles 

Of all their peccadilloes. 

Yet, 'midst this penitential plight, 
A thought their fancies tickled ; 

'Twere better brave the window's height 
Than be at morning pickled. 

And so they girt themselves to leap, 

Both under breath imploring 
A regiment of saints, to keep 

Their host and hostess snoring. 

The lean one 'lighted like a cat, 

Then scamper'd ofl'like Jehu, 
Nor stopp'd to help the man of fat, . 

Whose cheek was of a clay hue — 

Who, being by nature more design'd 

For resting than for jumping, 
Fell heavy on his parts behind, 

That broaden' d with the plumping. 

There long beneath the window's sconce 

His bruises he sat pawing, 
Squat as the figure of a bonze 

Upon a Chinese drawing. 

At length he waddled to a sty ; 

The pigs, you'd thought for game-sake, 
Came round and nosed him lovingly, 

As if they'd known their namesake. 

Meanwhile the other flew to town. 

And with short respiration 
Bray'd like a donkey up and down 

" Ass-ass-ass-assination !" 

Men left their beds, and night-capp'd heads 
Popp'd out from every casement ; 

The cats ran frighten' d on the leads ; 
Diion was all amazement. 



Doors bang'd, dogs bay'd, and boys hurra'd, 
Throats gaped aghast in bare rows. 

Till soundest sleeping watchmen woke, 
And even at last the mayor rose — 

Who, charging him before police. 

Demands of Dominick surly, 
What earthquake, fire, or breach of peace 

Made all tiiis hurly-burly ? 

" Ass — " quoth the priest, "ass-assina, m. 

Are (hence a league or nigher) 
About to salt, scrape, massacre, 

And barrel up a friar." 

Soon, at the magistrate's command, 
A troop from the gens-d'armes' house 

Of twenty men rode sword in hand. 
To storm the bloody farm's house. 

As they were cantering toward the place, 
Comes Jacquez to the swine-yard. 

But started when a great round face 
Cried, " Rascal ! hold thy whinyard." 

'Twas Boniface, as mad's King Lear, 

Playing antics in the piggery : 
' ' And what the devil brought you here, 

You mountain of a friar, eh ?" 

Ah! once how jolly, now how wan 
And blubber' d with the vapours, 

That frantic capuchin began 
To cut fantastic capers — 

Crying, " Help ! hallo ! the bellows blow. 

The pot is on to stew me ; 
I am a pretty pig — but no ! 

They shall not barbacue me." 

Nor was this raving fit a sham ; 

In truth he was hysterical. 
Until they brought him out a dram, 

And that wrought like a miracle. 

Just as the horsemen halted near, 
Crying, " Murderer, stop, ohoy, oh!' 

Jacquez was comforting the frere 
With a good glass of noyau — 

Who beckon'd to them not to kick up 

A row ; but waxing mellow. 
Squeezed Jacquez' hand, and with a hiccup 

Said, " You're a damn'd good fellow." 

Explaining lost but little breath : — 

Here ended all the matter ; 
So God save Queen Elizabeth, 

And long live Henri Quatre ! 

The gens-d'armes at the story broke 

Into horse-fits of laughter. 
And, as if they had known the joke, 

Their horses neigh' d thereafter. 

Lean Dominick, methinks, his chaps 
Yawn'd weary, worn, and moody, 

So may my readers' too, perhaps. 
And thus I wish 'em good day. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



Hknky Kikke White was born on the 21st of 
August, 1785, at Nottingham, where his father 
was a butcher. He gave early tokens of the 
genius for which he was afterwards distinguished ; 
and had written verses when scarcel}' more than 
a child. While at school and wooing the Muses, 
however, his spirit was subdued by his occupa- 
pation; on one whole day in every weeit, and 
during his leisure hours on the others, he was 
compelled to carry out the butcher's basket ; 
this drudgery he was forced to exchange for one 
scarcely less repulsive : at the age of fourteen the 
loom of a hosier was selected for this " darhng of 
Science and the Muse :"' his mother, however, 
felt that his yearnings after fame were indications 
of a higher destiny, and succeeded in placing him 
in the office of an attorney. Here he earnestly 
laboured to acquire knowledge ; soon ' ' learned 
to read Horace with tolerable facihty, and made 
some progress in Greek ;" obtained an insight 
into several of the sciences, and became so con- 
spicuous at the age of fifteen, as to be elected one 
of the six professors in the Literary Society^ of his 
native town. Having already felt a consciousness 
of his natural powers, his mind was directed to- 
wards the Universities ; — he was ambitious of 
academic distinction, yet with a very remote hope 
of ever attaining it. Having printed some prose 
and poetry in several of the magazines, he was 
induced, in 1803, to endeavour to forward his 
darling project by pubhshing a small volume. 
The volume was harshly handled by a critic in 
the Monthly Review, and the hopes and aspira- 
tions of the youth seemed for a time crushed for 
ever. Events which appear the most ruinous are 
often the most propitious. The ungentle usage 
the young Poet had received attracted towards 
him a friend, who was not only kind and gene- 
rous, but already in the zenith of his reputation ; 
the friend was Robert Southey, a man who, from 
that day to this, seems to have considered it a 
leading duty of his hfe, and the highest recom- 
pense of his genius, to assist young strugglers 
after fame through the slough of despond which 
so continually surrounds them. His memoir of 
White is one of the most exquisite examples of 
biography the English language can supply ; and 
does as much honour to the living, as to the me- 
mory of the deceased Poet. White achieved his 
object ; was entered at St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, and rapidly obtained the highest honours 
the University could confer upon him. All the 
wasting anxieties of years were now rewarded — 
the bud had blossomed — and the obscure and 
friendless youth found fame and ' ' admiring 
friends." But the penalty was yet to be exacted : 
the ardour with which he had studied — the eager 
longings after immortality — the unsubdued resolve 
to be "marked among men," had weakened his 



frame ; — life was the price he paid for distinction ; 
and 

" Science self-destroyed her favourite son." 

On the 19th of October, 1806, he died: " his 
death," says Dr. Southey, "is to be lamented as 
a loss to English hterature;" he adds, that "his 
virtues were as admirable as his genius." " Dis- 
tress and poverty," says another great authority, 
' ' could not impair his mind — which death itself 
destroyed rather than subdued." Southey also 
says: "It is not possible to conceive a human 
being more amiable in all the relations of life. 
He was the confidential friend and adviser of every 
member of his family; this he instinctively be- 
came : and the thorough goodness of his advice 
is not less remarkable than the affection with 
which it is always communicated." Good sense, 
indeed, at all times, and latterly fervent piety, 
appear to have been his chief characteristics ; 
the latter enabled him to overcome a naturally 
irritable temper ; and it was impossible, says the 
above authority, for man to be more tenderly 
patient of the faults of others, more uniformly 
meek, or more unaffectedly humble. 

Nearly all the poems of Henry Kirke White 
were written before he attained the age of nine 
teen. When he entered college, he was advised 
"to stifle his poetic fire for severer and more im- 
portant studies — to lay a billet on the embers 
until he had taken his degree, and then he might 
fan it into aflame again." This advice he fol- 
lowed so scrupulously, that a few "fragments" 
are the only produce of his maturer years. His 
" Remains" have been among the most popular 
productions of the age : edition after edition has 
been called for ; and a collection of the works of 
British Poets would be imperfect if it did not con- 
tain the poems of this "marvellous boy," — the 
martyr-student, the endowments of whose mind 
were even surpassed by the generosity of his na- 
ture, the sweetness of his disposition, the sound- 
ness of his principles, and the fervency of liis 
piety. His poetical talent was but one of many 
rare excellences; a character more perfect, in 
every sense of the word, has rarely fallen under 
the notice of the biographer. Had he lived to 
enter the sacred profession, which latterly became 
the engrossing object of his thoughts, he would 
have been one of its brightest ornaments; and it 
is certain that he must have occupied a foremost 
station among the Poets of his country. As it is, 
he has left us abundant proofs of the wisdom of 
virtue ; his upright conduct, no less than his ge- 
nius, drew friends around him ; and it is to the 
former, even more than to the latter, that his 
memory is indebted for one of the most valuable 
tributes that ever came from the pen of a public 
writer. 

167 



158 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



POEMS, 

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBUCATION OP 
CLIFTON GROVE. 



CHILDHOOD. 



This is one of the author's earliest productions, and 
appears by the handwriting to have been written 
when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The 
picture of the school-mistresB is from nature. 



PART I. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how 

sweet 
Our infaat days, our infant joys, to greet ! 
To roam in fancy in each cherish' d scene, 
The village church-yard and the village -green, 
The woodland walk remote, the green-wood 

glade, 
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine 

grew, 
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew ! 
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
To view th' unclouded skies of former days ! 

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, 
When each wing'd hour some new delight be- 
guiles ; 
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring 

true, 
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 
Blest Childhood, hail !— Thee simply will I sing, 
And from myself the artless picture bring ; 
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, 
And every stump famiUar to my sight 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat ; 

Here did I love at evening to retreat, 

And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 

Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 

Here once again, remote from human noise, 

I sit me down to think of former joys ; 

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once 

more, 
And once again each infant walk explore : 
While as each grove and iawn I recognize, 
My "melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; 
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, 
Flings to his soul a borrowed gleam of joy ; 
Blest Memory ! guide, with finger nicely true, 
Back to my youth my retro.spective view ; 
Recall with faithful vigour to my mind, 
Each face familiar, each relation kind ; 
And all the finer traits of them afford. 
Whose general outline in my heart ie stored. 



In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, 
The village matron kept her little school, 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; , 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; 
Her neatly border' d cap, as Uly fair, 
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
A pair of spectacles their want supplies : 
These does she guard secure in leathern case, 
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted 
place. 

Here first I enter' d, though with toil and pain, 
The lowly vestibule of learning's fane ; 
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way. 
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet dis- 
play. 
Much did I grieve on that ill-fated morn. 
While I was first to school reluctant borne : 
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, 
And thought of tender home where anger never 
kept. 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils. 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles. 
First at the form, my task for ever true, 
A little favourite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 

Oh ! had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought; 
Could she have seen me when revolving years 
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
Had been a lowlier, and unletter'd state ; 
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife. 
Unknown, unheard, I might have passed through 
Hfe. 

Where, in the busy scene, by peace unblest. 
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
A lonely mariner on the stormy main, 
Without a hope the calms of peace to gain; 
Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide 

shore, 
When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ? 
Not till the hght foam of the sea shall lave 
The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, 
Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
Sweet reign of innocence where no crime defiles, 
But each new object brings attendant smile$ ; 
When future evils never haunt the sight, 
But all is pregnant with unmixt dehght; 
To thee I turn from riot and from noise, 
Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 



POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE CLIFTON GROVE. 



159 



Neath yonder elm that stands upon the moor, 
When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, 
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups 

were seen, 
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 
While others, seated on the dappled grass, 
With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 
Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 
For banners, to a tall sash we did bind 
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind; 
And for our warhke arms we sought the mead, 
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 
Then, in iincouth array, our feats to crown, 
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was 

wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front. 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer, 
To view our gambols and our boyish gear. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, 
With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired of play we'd set. us by her side 
(For out of school she never knew to chide) — 
And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 
Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with 

pride 
To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 
Though we, poor wights ! did wonder much in 

troth. 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well belov'd, our 

play. 
To chat at home the vacant hour away. 
Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade, 
To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 
Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing. 
While we around her form'd a little ring : 
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed. 
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 
Or little children murder'd as they slept ; 
While at each pause we wrung our hands and 

wept. 
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we 
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 
Poor simple wights ! ah, little did we ween 
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ' 
Ah, litde thought that we ourselves should know 
This world's a world of weeping and of woe ! 

Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 
The first foundation of romantic thought ; 
Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear. 
Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. 
Soon stored with much of legendary lore. 
The sports of Childhood charm'd my soul no 

more. 
Far from the scene of gaiety and noise. 
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade, 
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, 
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 



Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, 

To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 



PART II. 

There are, who think that Childhood does not 

share 
With age, the cup, the bitter cup of care: 
Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth, 
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth, 

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find ; 
At every step has further cause to know 
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. 

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught 
With some new object for romantic thoijght, 
The impression of the moment quickly flies, 
And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 

How different manhood! — then does Thought's 

control 
Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart 
Becomes a painful resident in the heart; 
And Care, v/lio not the gayest can out-brave. 
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 
Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd 

hence, 
We feel a void no joy can recompense. 
And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, 
Wish that ourselves the next may meet our 

doom. 

Yes, Childhood, ihee no rankling woes pursue. 
No forms of future ill salute thy view. 
No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep. 
But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep; 
And sanguine Hope, through every storm of 

life. 
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal 

strife. 
Yet e'en round Childhood's heart, a thoughtless 

shrine. 
Affection's little thread will ever twine ; 
And though but frail may seem each tender tie, 
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 
Thus, when the long-expected moment came, 
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, 
Reluctant throbbings rose v^fithin my breast. 
And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 

When to the pubhc school compell'd to go, 
What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
There in each breast each active power dilates ! 
Which broils whole nations and convulses states : 
There reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, 
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere. 
The dark deformities of man appear. 
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim. 
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame 
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell. 
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell ; 
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
The good of heart, the intelligent of miiid. 



160 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE 



'T was there, O George! with thee I learn' d to 

join 
In Friendship's bands — in amity divine. 
Oh, mournful thought ! — Where is thy spirit now ? 
As here I sit on fav'rite Logar's brow, 
And trace below each well-remember'd glade, 
Where, arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. 
Where art thou laid — on what untrodden shore, 
Where nought is heard save Ocean's sullen roar ? 
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state. 
At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, 
Without one aiding hand stretch' d out to save ; 
See thee, convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, 
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend ; 
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, 
Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way. 
While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife. 
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 
Again I see his door against thee shut. 
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut : 
I see thee spent with toil and worn with grief, 
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; 
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er. 
Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, 
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road! 
That thou couldst see him at this moment here, 
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, 
And hover o'er him as he gazes round, 
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround ! 

Yes! yes! his spirit's near!— The whispering 

breeze, 
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees ; 
And lo ! his form transparent I perceive, 
Borne on the grey mist of the sullen eve : 
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 

Yet, ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 

'Tis Fancy's wild aerial dream, I ween ; 

By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, 

What fond illusions beam upon the sight ! 

She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 

What magic sounds salute the wandering ear ! 

Once more o'er distant regions do we tread. 

And the cold grave yields up its cherish' d dead ; 

While present sorrow's banish'd far away, 

Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, 

Or in the future's cloud-encircled face, 

Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 

And draw minutely every little wile, 

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 

So when forlorn and lonesome at her gate. 
The Royal Mary solitary sate, 
Andview'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave. 
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, 
Towards France's distant coast she bent her 

sight, 
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight; 
There did she form full many a scheme of joy, 
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, 
Which bright through Hope's deceitful optics 

beam'd, 
And all became the surety which it seem'd ; , 



She wept, yet felt, while ail within was calm, 
In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform' d and steep 

.Tust yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep, 

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 

To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 

Smiling upon the golden fields of com, 

And taste delighted of superior joys, 

Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes: 

With silent admiration oft we view'd 

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave 

strew' d, 
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, 
Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd. 
And the round orb itself, in azure throne, 
Just peeping o'er tlie blue hill's ridgy zone ; 
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, 
Reviving Nature hail'd returning day; 
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping 

heads 
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, 
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, 
The birds sung pseans to the source of hght : 
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise. 
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, 
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more 
Could trace him in his high aerial tour ; 
Though on the air, at intervals, his song 
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; 
And we have thought how happy were our lot 
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, 
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 
Began in every dell her forms to weave, 
We might pursue our sports from day to day, 
And in each other's arms wear hfe away. 

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, 
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet : 
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, 
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more ; 
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, 
Sung woe unto the wicked land — and wept : 
Or, fancy- led — saw .Teremiah mourn 
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 
Then to another shore perhaps would rove, 
With Plato talk in his Illysian grove ; 
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, 
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band, 
The ancient legends of our native land — 
Chivalric Britomart and Una fair, 
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, 
By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talk'd . 
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd, 
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom : 
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters 

flow. 
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. 

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell 
Which summon' d us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's 
knell, 



POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE CLIFTON GROVE, 



161 



And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear. 
It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 
Yet even then, (for oh ! what chains can bind, 
What powers control, the energies of mind ?) 
E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime, 
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, 
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk ! 
When to the upland heights we bent our way, 
To view the last beam of departing day ; 
How calm was all around I no playful breeze 
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 
The grey-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, 
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony ; 
The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took ; 
The rugged arch that clasp' d its silent tides, 
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its 

sides : 
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight ; 
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight ; 
All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 
We loved to watch the swallow swimming 

high. 
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride 
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide. 
And, tinged with such variety of shade. 
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 
In these what forms romantic did we trace. 
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 

Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, 
Leading the embattled seraphim to war. 
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky — 
Or saw, wide-stretching o'er the azure height, 
A ridge of glaciers in mural white. 
Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er, 
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no 

more; 
For thou art gone, and I am left below. 
Alone to struggle through this world of woe. 

The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll. 
And each revolve conducts me towards the 

goal; 
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, 
One endless continuity of grief, 
And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, 
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds ! that pant 
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want : 
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 
The calms of peace and happiness divine ! 
Far other cares be mine, — Men little crave 
In this short journey to the silent grave ; 
And the poor peasant, bless' d with peace and 

health, 
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree 
Paternal acres to await on me : 
She gave me more ; she placed within my breast 
\ heart with little pleased — with little blest ! 
21 



I look around me, where, on every side. 
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 
And could my sight be borne to either zone, 
I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander? shall the Muse, 

For golden baits, her simple theme refuse ? 

Oh, no ! but while the weary spirit greets 

The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets. 

It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, 

And prattles on in desultory song. 

That song must close — the gloomy mists of 

night 
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, 
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet. 
Steals on the welkin in primeval jet. 

The song must close. — Once more my adverse 

lot 
Leads me reluctant from this cherish' d spot ; 
Again compels to plunge in busy life, 
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 

Scenes of my youth ! ere my unwilling feet 
Are turn'd for ever fi'om this loved retreat, 
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, 
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more. 
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due. 
One long, one last affectionate adieu. 
Grant that, if ever Providence should please 
To give me an old age of peace and ease, 
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my day.? 
May wear away in gradual decays ; 
And oh ! ye spirits, who unbodied play, 
Unseen, upon the pinions of the day. 
Kind genii of my native fields benign, 
Who were * * * * 



THE FAIR MAID OF CLIFTON. 

A NEW BALLAD IN THE OLD STYLE. 

The night it was dark, and the winds were high, 

And mournfully waved the wood, 
As Bateman met his Margaret 

By Trent's majestic flood. 

He press'd the maiden to his breast, 
And his heart it was rack'd whh fear, 

For he knew, that again, 'twas a deadly chance 
If ever he press'd her there. 

" Oh ! Margaret, wilt thou bear me true," 

He said, " while I am far away, 
For to-morrow I go to a foreign land, 

And there I have long to stay." 

And the maid she vow'd she would bear him true 
And thereto she plighted her troth ; 

And she pray'd the fiend might fetch her away, 
When she forgot her oath. 

And the night-owl scream' d, as again she swore, 
And the grove it did mournfully moan, 

And Bateman's heart within him sunk, 
He thought 'twas his dying groan. 



163 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



And shortly he went with Clifton, his Lord, 

To abide in a foreign land ; 
And Margaret she forgot her oath, 

And she gave to another her hand. 

Her husband was rich, but old, and crabb'd, 

And oft the false one sigh'd. 
And wish'd that ere she broke her vow, 

She had broken her heart, and died. 

And now return'd, her Bateman came 

Tc demand his betrothed bride ; 
But soon he learned that she had sought 

A wealthier lover's side. 

And when he heard the dreadful news, 

No sound he utter' d more, 
But his stiffen'd corse, ere the morn, was seen 

Hung at his false one's door. 

And Margaret, all night, in her bed, 

She dreamed hideous dreams ; 
And oft upon the moaning wind 

Were heard her frightful screams. 

And when she knew of her lover's death, 
On her brow stood the clammy dew, 

She thought of her oath, and she thought of her 
fate, 
And she saw that her days were few. 

But the Lord he is just, and the guilty alone 
Have to fear of his vengeance the lash. 

The thimderbolt harms not the innocent head, 
While the cruninal dies 'neath the flash. 

His justice, she knew, would spare her awhile 
For the child that she bare in her womb ; 

But she felt that when it was born therefrom 
She must instantly go to her tomb. 

The hour approach' d, and she view'd it with 
fear 

As the date of her earthly time ; 
And she tried to pray to Almighty God, 

To expiate her crime. 

And she begg'd her relations would come at the 
day. 

And the parson would pray at her side ; 
And the clerk would sing a penitent hymn, 

With all the singers beside. 

And she begg'd they would bar the windows so 
strong. 

And put a new lock to the door ; 
And sprinkle with holy water the house, 

And over her chamber floor. 

And they barr'd with iron the windows so strong. 
And they put a new lock on the door ; 

And the parson he came, and he carefully strew'd 
With holy water the floor. 

And her kindred came to see the dame. 
And the clerk, and the singers beside ; 

And they did sing a penitent hymn. 
And with her did abide. 



And midnight came, and shortly the dame 

Did give to her child the light : 
And then she did pray, that they would stay, 

And pass with her the night. 

And she begg'd th\ey would sing the peniMnt 
hymn. 

And pray with all their might ; 
For sadly I fear, the fiend will be here. 

And fetch me away this night. 

And now without, a stormy rout. 

With howls, the guests did hear ; 
And the parson he pray'd, for he was afraid, 

And the singers they quaver'd with fear. 

And Marg'ret pray'd, the Almighty's aid, 

For louder the tempest grew ; 
And every guest, his soul he bless'd, 

As the tapers burned blue. 

And the fair again, she pray'd of the men 

To sing with all their might ; 
And they did sing, till the house did ring, 

And louder they sung for affright. 

But now their song, it died on their tongue, 
For sleep it was seizing their sense ; 

And Marg'ret scream' d, and bid them not 
sleep. 
Or the fiends would bear her thence. 



WINTER SONG. 

RoTJSE the blazing midnight fire, 
Heap the crackling fagots higher ; 
Stern December reigns without. 
With old Winter's blust'ring rout. 

Let the jocund timbrels sound, 
Push the jolly goblet round ; 
Care avaunt, with all thy crew, 
Gobhn's dire, and devils blue. 

Hark ! without the tempest growls : 
And the affrighted watch-dog howls ; 
Witches on their broomsticks sail. 
Death upon the whistling gale. 

Heap the crackling fagots higher. 
Draw your easy chairs still nigher ; 
And to guard from wizards hoar, 
Nail the horse-shoe on the door. 

Now repeat the freezing story. 
Of the murder'd traveller gory. 
Found beneath the yew-tree sear. 
Cut, his throat, from ear to ear. 

Tell, too, how his ghost, all bloody, 
Frighten'd once a neighb'ring goody ; 
And how, still at twelve he stalks, 
Groaning o'er the wild- wood walks. 



POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE CLIFTON GROVE. 



163 



Then, when fear usurps her sway, 
Let us creep to bed away ; 
Each for ghosts, but httle bolder, 
Fearfully peeping o'er his shoulder. 



TO THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT. 

Nor unfamiliar to mine ear, 

Blasts of the night ! ye howl, as now 

My shudd'ring casement round 

With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear hath caught in silent awe 
The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 

And when the pausing gale 

Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. 

Once more I hsten ; sadly communing 
Within me, — once more mark, storm-clothed, 

The moon as the dark cloud 

Glides rapidly away. 

I, deeming that the voice of spirits dwells 

In these mysterious moans, in solemn thought 

Muse in the choral dance, 

The dead man's Jubilee. 

Hark ! how the spirit knocks, — how loud — 
Even at my window knocks, — again : — 

I cannot — dare not sleep, — 

It is a boisterous night. 

I would not, at this moment, be 
In the drear forest-groves, to hear 

This uproar and rude song 

Ring o'er the arched aisles. 

The ear doth shudder at such sounds 
As the embodied winds, in their disport. 

Wake in the hollow woods. 

When man is gone to sleep. 

There have been heard unchristian shrieks 
And rude distemper'd merriment, 

As though the autumnal woods 

Were all in morrice-dance. 

There's mystery in these sounds, and I 
Love not to have the grave disturb' d; 

And dismal trains arise 

From the unpeopled tombs. 

Spirits, I pray ye, let them sleep 
Peaceful in their cold graves, nor waft 

The sear and whispering leaf 

From the inhumed breast. 



THANATOS. 



Oh ! who would cherish life. 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, 

Love this rude world of strife. 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day ; 

And where, 'neath outward smiles, 
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 



Where pit-falls lie in ev'ry flowery way, 
And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! 
Hateful it is to me. 
Its riotous raihngs and revengeful strife ; 

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts 
Diiming the ear — away — away with life ! 

And welcome, oh ! thou silent maid, 

Who in some foggy vault art laid, 

Where never dayhght's dazzling ray 

Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; 

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep 

In such forgetful slumbers deep, 

That all thy senses stupified, 

Are to marble petrified. 

Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 

Sweet are thy calms to misery. 

Poppies I will ask no more, 

Nor the fatal hellebore ; 

Death is the best, the only cu.re, 

His are slumbers ever sure. 

Lay me in the Gothic tomb, 

In whose solemn fretted gloom 

I may lie in mouldering state, 

With all the grandeur of the great : 

Over me, magnificent. 

Carve a stately monument : 

Then thereon my statue lay. 

With hands in attitude to pray, 

And angels serve to hold my head. 

Weeping o'er the father dead. 

Duly too at close of day. 

Let the pealing organ play ; 

And while the harmonious thunders roll, 

Chaunt a vesper to my soul ; 

Thus how sweet my sleep will be. 

Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 



ATHANATOS, 



Away with Death ! — away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, 

Impervious to the day. 
Where Nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave, 
And yield with joy the vital fire, 
To moulder in the grave ? 

Yet mortal life is sad. 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; 

And sorrows ever rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry 
Away with mortal life ! 
But, hail the calm reahty. 
The seraph Immortality ! 
Hail the heavenly bowers of peace ! 
Where all the storms of passion cease. 
Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er, 
The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 
But wears the eternal smile of joy, 
Tasting bhss without alloy. 
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 
Where no passing tempest lowers ; 
But the azure heavens display 
The everlasting smile of day ; 
Where the choral seraph choir, 
Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ; 



164 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE 



And the spirit sinks to ease, 

LuU'd by distant symphonies. 

Oh 1 to think of meeting there 

The friends whose graves received our tear, 

The daughter loved, the wife adored. 

To our widow' d arms restored ; 

And all the joys which death did sever, 

Given to us again for ever ! 

Who would cling to wretched life, 

And hug the poison'd thorn of strife ; 

Who would not long from earth to fly 

A sluggish senseless lump to lie, 

When the glorious prospect lies 

Full before his raptured eyes ? 



ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON. 



-Cum ruit imbriferum ver : 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent : 



Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 



VirgU. 



Moon of Harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labour's child. 
Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam. 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 
And gilds the straw-thatch' d hamlet wide 
Where Innocence and Peace reside ; 
'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove. 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky. 
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 

Pleasing 'tis, oh '. modest Moon ! 
Now the Night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat. 
Ripen' d by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon, 

Oh, modest Moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

■T^o see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest home ! 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains. 

Stern despoilers of the plains, 

Hence away, the season flee, 

Foes to light-heart jollity : 

May no winds careering high. 

Drive the clouds along the sky, 
But may all nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, O 
Harvest Moon! 



'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, 
The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes ; 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh 1 may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the Winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blus- 
tering whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo : 

Press ye still the downy bed 

While fev'rish dreams surround your head; 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade, 

Wrapt in Contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes. 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune, 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 



THE EVE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
I. 

Silence of Death — portentous calm, 

Those airy forms that yonder fly. 
Denote that your void foreruns a storm. 

That the hour of fate is nigh. 
I see, I see, on the dim mist borne. 

The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
I see, I see, that ere the morn, 

His spear will forsake its hated rest. 
And the widow' d wife of Larrendill will beat her 
naked breast. 

II. 
O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep 

No softly ruflBing zephyrs fly ; 
But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, 

For the hour of battle is nigh. 
Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak. 

But a creeping stillness reigns around; 
Except when the raven with ominous croak, 

On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
I know, I know, what this silence means ; 

I know what the raven saith — 
Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp. 

For this is the eve of death. 

III. 

Behold, how along the twilight aii' 

The shades of our fathers glide ! 
There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hail". 

And Colmawith grey side. 
No gale around its coolness flings, 

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
And, hark ! how the harp's unvisited strings 

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering, 
breeze ! 
'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 

He will never set more to the brave ; 
Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death— 

For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS 



165 



CLIFTON GROVE AND 
OTHER POEMS. 



TO MY LYRE. 



Thou simple Lyre ; — thy music wild 

Has served to charm the weary hour, 
And many a lonely night has 'gulled, 
When even pain has own'd, and smiled, 
Its fascinating power. 

Yet, oh my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
Will little heed thy simple tones : 
Them mightier minstrels harping loud 
Engross, — and thou and I must shroud 
Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

No hand, thy diapason o'er, 

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime , 
For me, no academic lore 
Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 

Or build the polish'd rhyme. 

Yet thou to Sylvan themes can'st soar; 

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train: 
The rustic swains believe thy power 
Can hush the wild winds when they roar. 

And still the billowy main. 

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 

L still unknown, may live with thee. 
And gentle Zephyr's wing will sweep 
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep. 
Beneath the alder-tree. 

This little dirge will please me more 

Than the full requiem's swelling peal; 
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
For me, that from some kindred eye 
The trickhng tear should steal. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay. 

Perhaps from me debarr'd: 
And dear to me the classic zone. 
Which snatch' d from learning' s labour' d throne , 

Adorns the accepted bard. 

And O ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
Where Cam or Isis winds along, 

Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, 

I yet might call the ear of taste 
To listen to my song. 

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style 

I'd change to happier lays. 
Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, 
And through the long, the fretted aisle 

Should swell the note of praise. 



CLIFTON GROA^E. 

A SKETCH IN VERSE. 

Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
No more is heard the woodman's measureo 

stroke, 
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
No more hoarse clamouring o'er the uphfted 

head. 
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd 

bed; 
Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds. 
And general silence reigns, save when below, 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, 
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile. 

Released from day and its attendant toil, 

And draws his household round their evening 

tire, 
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise. 
And manufacture taints the ambient skies. 
The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, 
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room. 
And rushes out, impatient to begin 
The stated course of customary sin : 
Now, now my solitary way I bend 
Where solemn groves in awful state impend, 
And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, 
Bespeak, blest Chfton ! thy sublime domain. 
Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
I come to pass the meditative hour ; 
To bid awhile the strife of passion cease. 
And woo th{e calms of solitude and peace. 
And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on 

high 
Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 
Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control 
Steals with resistless witchery to the soul. 
Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire 
My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. 
And thou too. Fancy ! from thy starry sphere. 
Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear. 
Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
At thy command, the gale that passes by 
Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 
Thou wavest thy wand, and lo ! what forms 

appear ! 
On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 
The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale. 
And hosts of Sylphids on the moonbeams sail. 
This gloomy alcove, darkhng to the sight. 
Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 
Save when, from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day ; 
Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind. 
Times when, beneath the bo.xen hedge reclined, 
I watch'd the lapwing to her clamourous brood ; 
Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; 



166 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 

And at each gay response delighted smiled. 

How oft, when childhood threw its golden rajr 

Of gay romance o'er every happy day. 

Here would I run, a visionary boy, 

When the hoarse tempest shook the vauUed sky, 

And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 

Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 

And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost 

soul. 
His voice terrific in the thunder's roll. 
With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare, 
The volley' d lightnings cleave the sullen air ; 
And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 
Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which endears 
This silent spot to my advancing years. 
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest. 
In shades hke these to live is to be blest. 
While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame 
Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame. 
Thou here dost love to sit with upturn' d eye, 
And hsten to the stream that murmurs by, 
The woods that wave, the grey owl's silken flight. 
The mellow music of the listening night : 
Congenial calms, more welcome to my breast 
Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest. 
To heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise, 
That ye may bless my unambitious days, 
Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife. 
May trace with me the lowly vale of hfe, 
And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, 
May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 
Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
No more above the embracing branches meet. 
No more the river gurgles at my feet, 
But seen deep down the clifTs impending side, 
Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver 

tide. 
Dim is my upland path, — across the Green 
Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
The chequer' d glooms, the moon her chaste ray 

sheds 
Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful 

heads. 
And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees. 
Load with vv^aste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight. 
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow. 
And gives to him alone his bhss to know, 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms ? 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath. 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings. 
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs ; 
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from 

strife. 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
No more his soul would pant for joys impure. 
The deadly chahce would no more allure. 
But the sweet potion he was wont to sip 
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 



Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms. 
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms ! 
Thine are the sweets which never, never sate. 
Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me 'twas Heaven' ^divine com- 
mand 
To roll in acres of paternal land, 
Yet still my lot is blest, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 

Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss. 

Who, still in abject poverty or pain, 

Can count with pleasure what small joys remain: 

Though were his sight convey' d from zone to 

zone. 
He would not find one spot of ground his own, 
Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, 
These bounding prospects all were made for 

me: 
For me yon waving fields their burthen bear, 
For me yon labourer guides the shining share, 
While happy I in idle ease recline, 
And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 
This is the charm, by sages often told. 
Converting all it touches into gold. 
Content can soothe, where'er by Fortune placed, 
Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height. 
Spreads the wide view before my straining 

sight ! 
O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground^ 
E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, 
My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene, 
The silver moon illumes the misty scene ; 
Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade. 
In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies, 

The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 

No more where late the social fagot blazed. 

The vacant peal resounds, by httle raised. 

But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star 

The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car : 

The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the 

glade, 
The solemn l^our for walking spectres made ! 
The simple plow-boy, wakening with the sound, 
Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, 
Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, 
Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, 
Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 
Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild 

affright, 
The deep-mouth'd mastifFbays the troubled night: 
Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale, 
The creaking sign-post whistles to the gale, 
A little onward let me bend my way 
Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. 
That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 
That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name: 
There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom. 
There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 



* The constellation Delphinus. For authority for 
this appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113. 



CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS. 



167 



And in the branch that rears above llie rest 
The robin unmolested builds its nest. 
'Twashere, wlien Hope, presiding o'er my breast, 
In vivid colours every prospect drest; 
'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams. 
And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 
Here, as I press once more the ancient seat. 
Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat ? 
Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 
That thy illusions can no more deceive ? 
Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, 
And thou too, gay Seducer ! art thou fled ? 
Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 
Yet thou couidst 'guile Misfortune of her tear, 
And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way 
Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 
How gay, in youth, the fluttering future seems! 
How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams .' 
The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. 
And all is buried in redoubled night. 
Yet some can rise superior to their pain, 
And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain ; 
While others, dead to feeling, can survey, 
Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : 
But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast ! 
Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 
And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the 

gloom 
To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
So in these shades the early primrose blows. 
Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows ; 
So falls untimely on the desert waste, 
Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

Now, pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, 
Down the steep chflT I wind my devious way. 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, 
The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 
And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with 

wood 
That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
What rising views prolong the calm delight ! 
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, 
The woody island, and the naked mead, 
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 
The rural wicket, and the rural stile. 
And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 
Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 
Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise, 
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, 
And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
Around, what sounds, what magic sounds, arise, 
What ghmmering scenes salute my ravish'd 

eyes ! 
Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. 
And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind. 
Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 
Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, 
Save when is heard, between each dreary rest, 
Discordant from her solitary nest, 
Tne owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon, 
Now riding, cloud-rapt, near her highest noon: 
Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, 
And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 



How oft, in this sequester 'd spot, when youth 
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth. 
Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ? 
That tale, so sad ! which still to memory dear, 
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 
And (luU'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) 
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 
These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the 

wind, 
Recall its faintest features to my mind. 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 
Have swept beneath the silent wing of time. 
Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 
The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 
Confest in private his peculiar pain. 
In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair. 
Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 
No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 
Attuned to gaiety his artless reed ; 
No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 
His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, 
But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined, 
He mLx'd his sobbings with the passing wind, 
Bemoan'd his helpless love ; or, boldly bent, 
Far from these smiling fields, a rover went. 
O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, 
A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express' d disdain ; 

Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 

Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching 

boughs. 
The echoing vault responded to their vows, 
As here, deep hidden from the glare of day, 
Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her 

flame. 
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie. 
When evening slumber'd on the western sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
Each bears mementoes of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
With the fallen honours of the mourning trees. 
The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. 
And waited long beyond the appointed hour. 
Yet Bateman came not; — o'er the woodland 

drear, 
Howhng portentous, did the winds career; 
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods, 
The fitful rains nish'd down in sullen floods ; 
The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale 
Paused for a moment, — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 
But through the covert to her anxious ear, 
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 
Strange fears now fiU'd her breast,— she knew 

not why, 
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each 

sigh. 
She hears a noise, — 'tis he, — he conies at last ;- 
Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past: 
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, 
Lightly it comes, ana nearer noes u bounn ; 



168 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



'Tis Bateman's self,— he springs into lier arms, 
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 

" Yet why this silence ?— I have waited long, 
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
And, now thou'rt here, my fears are fled— yet 

speak, 
Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? 
Say, what is wrong?"— Now, through a parting 

cloud , 
The pale moon peered from her tempestuous 

shroud. 
And Bateman's face was seen:— 'twas deadly 

white, 
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
"Oh, speak, my love!" again the maid conjured ; 
" Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?" 
He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, 
Thrice from his hps the unfinish'd accents fell ; 
When thus, at last, reluctantly he broke 
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : 
" Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance 
I on these fields must cast my parting glance. 
For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
I go to languish in a foreign land. 
Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view, 
Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
Should honours tempt thee, and should riches 

fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 
And, on the silken couch of wealth rechned, 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" 

"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus 

prove ? 
Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then, suspect my 

love? 
Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous heart. 
My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall 

part, 
If, when he hail again his native shore. 
He finds his Margaret true to him no more, 
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, 
And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps. 
To find deserved death in yonder deeps !"* 

,Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 
A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 
One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 
The other, trembhng, to her love confides. 
" This bind the vow," she said; " this mystic 

charm 
No future recantation can disarm ; 
The right vindictive does the fates involve ; 
No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." 

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry. 
The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
And once again the lady of the night 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she vicw'd these portents with dismay. 
But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 
Yet still he felt concealed a secret smart. 
Still melancholy bodings fiU'd his heart. 



* This part of Trent is commonly called 
ten Deepe." 



■ TTie Clif- 



When to the distant land the youth was sped, 

A lonely life the moody maiden led. 

Still would she trace each dear, each well-known 

walk , 
Still by the moonlight to her love would talk. 
And fancy, as she paced among the trees, 
She heard his whispers in the dying breeze . 
Thus two years glided on in silent grief; 
The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: 
Absence had cool'd her love, — the impoverish'd 

flame 
Was dwindling fast, when, lo ! the tempter 

came ; 
He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life, 
And the weak maid became another's wife ! 
Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's 

crime. 
When Bateman hailed once more his native 

clime. 
Sure of her constancy, elate he came. 
The lovely partner of his soul to claim ; 
Light was his heart, as up the well-known way 
He bent his steps — and all his tljoughts were 

gay- 

Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes. 

When on his ear the fatal news arose ! 

Chill'd with amazement, — senseless with the 

blow. 
He stood a marble monument of woe : 
Till, called to all the horrors of despair. 
He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; 
Then rushed impetuous from the dreadful spot. 
And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er for- 
got,) 
Those scenes, the witness of their growing flanie. 
And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 
'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, 
And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 
Now on the bank in silent grief he stood. 
And gazed intently on the stealing flood. 
Death in his mien and madness in his eye. 
He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; 
Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave 
Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, ' 
Rehgion sternly stayed his rash intent. 
He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, 
Andfann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 
The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 
The paly moonbeam on its surface slept. 
And all was peace, — he felt the general calm 
O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie. 
His Margaret, luU'd in Germain's* arms to rest. 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, 
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, 
Then, at one spring, he spurn'd the yielding 

bank, 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound. 
As in the stream he plunged, was heard around: 
Then all was still — the wave was rough no more, 
The river swept as sweetly as before ; 

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 



CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS. 



169 



The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, 
And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 
Full well she knew, repentant now too late, 
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast. 
The offended God prolong'd her life unblest. 
But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away. 
And near, and nearer, drew the dreaded day ; 
That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light, 
And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 
The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 
In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time. 
Intent to expiate her awful crime. 
Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight 

came 
A heavy sleep oppress' d each weary frame. 
In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, 
Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 
They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 
The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye ; 
Then waking wide they sought the ravish' d bed, 
But, lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 
And never more the weeping train were doom'd 
To view the false one, in the deeps entomb'd. 

The neighbouring rustics told, that in the night 
They heard such screams as froze them with 

affright, 
And many an infant at its mother's breast, 
Started, dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 
And even now, upon the heath forlorn. 
They show the path down which the fair was 

borne 
By the fell demons, to the yawning wave. 
Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, 
Which oft in youth has charm' d my listening ear : 
That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 
In the drear silence of these dark retreats ; 
And even now, with melancholy power. 
Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, 
With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, 
And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 
This, as the distant cataract swells around. 
Gives a romantic cadence to the sound ; 
This, and the deep'ning glen, the alley green. 
The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between. 
The massy rock, the wood-encompass' d leas. 
The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees. 
The lengthening vista, and the present gloom. 
The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 
These are thy charms : the joys which these im- 
part 
Bind thee, blest Clifton! close around my heart. 

Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track. 
To thee will memory lead the wanderer back. 
22 



Whether in Arno's polish' d vales I stray, 

Or where " Oswego's swamps" obstruct the 

day ; 
Or wander lone, where wildering and wide, 
The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; 
Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, 
Or stand entranced with Pyrennean views ; 
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam. 
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer 

home. 

When Splendour offers, and when fame incites, 
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 
Reject the boon, and wearied with the change. 
Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes 

once more. 
Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore. 
And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 
Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny. 
And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; 
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, 
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand ; 
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb. 
My sprite shall wander through this favourite 

gloom. 
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 
Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave, 
And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 



GONDOLINE. 

A BALLAD. 

The night it was still, and the moon it shone 

Serenely on the sea, 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmur' d pleasantly. 

When GondoUne roam'd along the shore, 

A maiden full fair to the sight ; 
Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, 

And turn'd it to deadly white. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 

It fill'd her faint blue eye. 
As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear. 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good King's men, 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 

And many a month had pass'd away. 

And many a roUing year, 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The Ocean's misty face ; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark 

She on the wave could trace. 



170 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



And every night she placed a light 
In the high rock's lonely tower, 

To guide her lover to the land, 

Should the murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast, 

And sunken in her eye : 
" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live. 

And I in peace will die." 

She wander' d o'er the lonely shore, 
The Curlew scream' d above, 

She heard the scream with a sickening heart 
Much boding of her love. 

Yet still she kept her lonely way, 

And this was all her cry, 
•' Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace shall die." 

And now she came to a horrible rift, 

All in the rock's hard side, 
A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 

The cavern yawning wide. 

And pendent from its dismal top 
I'he deadly nightshade hung ; 

The hemlock and the aconite 
Across the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 

And all without was calm ; 
Yet Gondoline enter' d, her soul upheld 

By some deep-working charm. 

And as she enter' d the cavern wide, 
The moonbeam gleamed pale, 

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
It clung by its slimy tail. 

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast. 

She trod on a bloated toad ; 
Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, 

She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose ; 
So, on the mountain's piny top, 

The blustering north wind blows. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud 

Were heard with thundering sound, 

Till they died away in soft decay. 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went, 

The charm yet onward led. 
Though each big glaring ball of sight 

Seem'd bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw, 

It from a distance came, 
She foUow'd, till upon her sight, 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall' d ; yet still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul ; 
Yet each bent knee the other smote. 

And each wild eye did roll. 



And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal saw before, 
And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal shall see more. 

A burning caldron stood in the midst, 
The flame was fierce and high. 

And all the cave so wide and long 
Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the caldron stout 
Twelve wither' d witches stood: 

Their waists were bound with living snakes 
And their hair was stiff" with blood. 

Their hands were gory too ; and red 
And fiercely flamed their eyes : 

And they were muttering indistinct 
Their helhsh mysteries. 

And suddenly they join'd their hands, 

And utter'd a joyous cry, 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopt ; and each prepared 

To tell what she had done, 
Since last the Lady of the night 

Her waning ccMrse had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 

Thick weeds her face did veil, 
And she leaned fearful foi'warder. 

To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose : She said she'd seen 

Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, 

She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, 
And a jovial storm had brew'd. 

She call'd around the winged winds, 

And raised a devilish rout ; 
And she laugh' d so loud, the peals were heard 

Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave, 
And there was a woman there who'd been 

To see her husband's grave. 

And she had got a child in her arms. 

It was her only child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguiled. 

And there was too, in that same bark, 

A father and his son ; 
The lad was sickly, and the sire 

Was old and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong, 
And the bark could no more it 'bide, 

She said it was jovial fun to hear 
How the poor devils cried. 

The mother clasp'd her orphan child 

Unto her breast, and wept ; 
And, sweetly folded in her arms. 

The careless baby slept. 



CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS, 



171 



And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 

As manfully it roar'd, 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs 

'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
The crew could scarcely hold her down 

From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 

And it was soft and fair : 
It must have been a lovely child, 

To have had such lovely hair. 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes, they fast arose, 

His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, 

And his face grew deadly blue : 
And his father he tore his thin grey hair. 

And kissed the Uvid hue. 

And then she told, how she bored a hole 

In the bark, and it fill'd away : 
And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, 

And some did vow and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead. 
The sailors their strength did urge ; 

But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, 
And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire. 

The red flame flamed high. 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The second begun : She said she had done 
The task that Queen Hecate had set her. 

And that the devil, the father of evil, 
Had never accomplish'd a better. 

She said, there was an aged woman. 

And she had a daughter fair, 
Whose evil habits fill'd her heart 

With misery and care. 

The daughter had a paramour, 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman him against 

Did murmur grievously. 

And the hag had work'd the daughter up 

To murder her old mother. 
That then she might seize on all her goods. 

And wanton with her lover. 

And one night as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed, 
And pondering sorely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led, 

She heard her footstep on the floor, 

And she raised her pallid head, 
And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 

Approaching to her bed. 



And said, My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live, 
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 

Thy sins I may forgive. 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp bright knife, 

And the mother saw her full intent. 
And hard she begg'd for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail, 
And she scream' d aloud with fear, 

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
Could reach no human ear. 

And though that she was sick and old. 

She struggled hard and fought ; 
The murderess cut three fingers through 

Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up. 

The skin was mangled sore. 
And they all agreed, a nobler deed 

Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire. 

The red flame flamed high. 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The third arose : She said she'd been 

To Holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day, 

Than they had all seen in nine. 

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps. 

Drew nearer to the flame. 
For much she dreaded now to hear 

Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day, 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said that she in human gore 

Above the knees did wade. 
And that no tongue could truly tell 

The tricks she there had play'd. 

There was a gallant-featured youth, 

Who like a hero fought ; 
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised, 

Unto the night she sues, 
And tells him she from Britain comes. 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd. 

His love had given her hand 
Unto a wealthy Thane, and thought 

Him dead in holy land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 

When this her tale was told. 
It would have made a wizard's blood 

Within his heart run cold. 



172 

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 

And sought the battJe's bed : 
And soon, all mangled o'er with wounds. 

He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse she tore 

His head, half clove in two, — 
She ceased, and from beneath her garb 

The bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 

The mouth it ghastly grinn'd. 
And there was a gash across the brow, 

The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 

'Twas Beetrand's Head ! ! With a terrible 
scream, 

The maiden gave a spring. 
And from her fearful hiding-place 

She fell into the ring. 

The hghts they fled — the caldron sunk, 

Deep thunders shook the dome. 
And hollow peals of laughter came 

Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground, 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 

At intervals around. 

She woke — she half arose, — and wild, 

She cast a horrid glare : 
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled 

And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock, 

The moon it sweetly shone, 
And show'd a river in the cave 

Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep, 

As it rush'd the rocks between, 
It offer'd well, for madness fired 

The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 

With its accustom' d sound, 
And hollow peals of laughter loud 

Again rebellow'd round. 

The maid was seen no more. — But oft 

Her ghost is known to ghde, 
At midnight's silent solemn hour, 

Along the ocean's side. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



ODE 

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh ! thou who, in my early youth. 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Wert wont to win my infant feet, 
To some retired, deep-fabled seat, 
Where by the brooklet's secret tide, 
The midnight ghost was known to glide, 
Or lay me in some lowly glade, 
In native Sherwood's forest shade. 



Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 

Was wont his sylvan courts to hold ; 

And there, as musing deep I lay, 

Would steal my little soul away. 

And all thy pictures represent, 

Of siege and solemn tournament ; 

Or bear me to the magic scene 

Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine, 

The warrior night of chivalry 

Made many a fierce enchanter flee. 

And bore the high-born dame away. 

Long held the fell magician's prey ; 

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 

Of murders, and of goblins pale 

Haunting the guilty baron's side 

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) 

Which o'er the vaulted corridor 

On stormy nights were heard to roar, 

By old domestic, waken' d wide 

By the angry winds that chide ; 

Or else the mystic tale would tell 

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-beard fell. 



SONNET. 



Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild. 

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, 
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise. 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

I shall not want the world's delusive joys: 
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Come, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
In some retired Lapponian cell. 
Where, far from noise and riot rude. 
Resides sequester' d Solitude, 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 
Throw thy dark and russet stole. 
And open to my duteous eyes 
The volume of thy mysteries. 

I will meet thee on the hill, 
Where, with printless footsteps, still 
The morning, in her buskin grey. 
Springs upon her eastern way ; 
While the frolic zephyrs stir, 
Playing with the gossamer, 
And on ruder pinions borne, 
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 
There, as o'er the fields we pass, 
Brushing with hasty feet the grass. 
We will startle from her nest 
The lively lark with speckled breast, 
And hear the floating clouds among, 
Her gale -transported matin song, 



POEMS OF A LATER DATE. 



173 



Or on the upland stile embower' d, 

With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower' d, 

Will sauntering sit, and listen still 

To the herdsman's oaten quill, 

Wafted from the plain below ; 

Or the heifer's frequent low ; 

Or the milkmaid in the grove, 

Singing of one that died for love : 

Or when the noontide heats oppress, 

We will seek the dark recess, 

Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, 

The cattle shun the sultry beam, 

And o'er us, on the marge reclined. 

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind. 

While Echo, from her ancient oak, 

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 

Or the little peasant's song, 

Wandering lone the glens among, 

His artless lip with berries dyed. 

And feet through ragged shoes descried. 

But, oh ! when evening's virgin queea 
Sits on her fringed throne serene. 
And mingling whispers, rising near, 
Steal on the still reposing ear : 
While distant brooks decaying round, 
Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, 
And the zephyr, flitting by. 
Whispers mystic harmony, 
We will seek the woody lane. 
By the hamlet, on the plain. 
Where the weary rustic nigh 
Shall whistle his wild melody. 
And the creaking wicket oft 
Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ; 
And as we trace the green path lone, 
With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 
We will muse on pensive lore 
Till the full soul, brimming o'er, 
Shall in our upturn' d eyes appear, 
Embodied in a quivermg tear : 
Or else, serenely silent, set 
By the brawling rivulet. 
Which on its calm unruflSed breast. 
Bears the old mossy arch impress' d. 
That clasps its secret stream of glass 
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet. 
We'll watch, in eve's ethereal braid, 
The rich vermihon slowly fade ; 
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, 
The first ghmpse of the eastern star. 
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of Ught, 
That heralds in imperial night ; 
Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear. 
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear. 
The distant sounds of pastoral lute. 
Invoking soft the sober suit 
Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 
With love or sorrow's pensive spell 
(So erst did music's silver tone 
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 
And haply then, with sudden swell, 
Shall roar the distant curfew-bell, 
While in the castle' s mouldering tower 
The hooting owl is heard to pour 



Her melancholy song, and scare 
Dull Silence brooding in the air. 
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car 
Black-suited Night drives on from far, 
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear 
Arrests the waxing darkness drear. 
And summons to her silent call. 
Sweeping in their airy pall. 
The unshrived ghosts in fairy trance. 
To join her moonshine morris-dance : 
While around the mystic ring 
The shadowy shapes elastic spring. 
Then with a passing shriek they fly. 
Wrapt in mists, along the sky, 
And oft are by the shepherd seen. 
In his lone night-watch on the green. 

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 

To the low abbey's still retreat, 

Embower'd in the distant glen. 

Far from the haunts of bixsy men, 

Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 

The glow-worm's light may gild the gloonv 

And show to Fancy's saddest eye. 

Where some lost hero's ashes lie, 

And oh I as through the mouldering arch, 

With ivy fiU'd and weeping larch. 

The night-gale whispers sadly clear. 

Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, 

We'll hold communion with the shade 

Of some deep-wailing ruin'd maid — 

Or call the ghost of Spenser down. 

To tell of woe and Fortune's frown ; 

And bid us cast the eye of hope 

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 

Or if these joys, to us denied. 

To linger by the forest's side ; 

Or in the meadow, or the wood. 

Or by the lone romantic flood ; 

Let us in the busy town. 

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 

Far from drowsy pillows flee. 

And turn the church's massy key ; 

Then, as through the painted glass 

The moon's faint beams obscurely pass ; 

And darkly on the trophied wall. 

Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; 

Let us, while the faint winds wail, 

Through the long reluctant aisle, 

As we pace with reverence meet, 

Count the echoings of our feet: 

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend 

Thus on my footsteps to attend. 

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn, 

By fallen Genius' sainted urn. 

As o'er the scroll of Time I pore. 

And sagely spell of ancient lore, 

Till I can rightly guess of all 

That Pfato could to memory call, 

And scan the formless views of things, 

Or with old Egypt's fetter' d kings. 

Arrange the mystic trains that shine 

In night's high philosophic mine ; 

And to thy name shall e'er belong 

The honours of undying song. 



174 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 

Down the sultry arc of day 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And eve along the western skies 

Spreads her intermingling dyes. 

Down the deep, the miry lane. 

Creaking comes the empty wain. 

And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft, with his accustom'd call, 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, the master's gone. 

And thresher puts his jacket on, 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall. 

Nails the dead kite to the wall. 

Here comes shepherd Jack at last. 

He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast. 

For 'twas but two nights before, 

A lamb was eaten on the moor : 

His empty wallet Rover carries. 

Now for Jack, when near home, tarries. 

With lolling tongue he runs to try 

If the horse-trough be not dry. 

The milk is settled in the pans, 

And supper messes in the cans ; 

In the hovel carts are wheel' d, 

And both the colts are drove a-field ; 



The horses are all bedded up. 
And the ewe is with the tup. 
The snare for Mister Fox is set, 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet 
And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
With Roger in the holly-walk. 

Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Torn, and roguish Kate, 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things. 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings. 
Or else tell all the village news, 
How madam did the squire refuse ; 
How parson on his tithes was bent. 
And landlord oft distrain' d for rent. 
Thus do they, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high. 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
Had reel'd — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 
Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 
The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear : 
Then both to bed together creep. 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 



George Gordon Byron was born in Holies 
street, London, on the 22d of January, 1788. He 
was the grandson of the celebrated Admiral, and 
succeeded his great uncle, William Lord Byron, 
in 1798. On his elevation to the peerage, he was 
removed from the care of his mother, and placed 
at Harrow by his guardian, — the Earl of Carlisle. 
In 1805, he was entered at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge ; and took up his permanent residence at 
Newstead Abbey, the family seat. In 1807, he 
published at Newark, his " Hours of Idleness ;" 
they were attacked with considerable bitterness 
in the " Edinburgh Review," and his memorable 
' ' Satire' ' followed. His various ' ' Works' ' suc- 
ceeded with wonderful rapidity. In 1815, he 
married the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank Noel : 
a separation took place soon afterwards, and the 
Poet went abroad, — residing at Geneva, and in 
various cities of Italy. In August, 1823, he em- 
barked in the cause of Greece ; and died at 
Missolonghi, on the 19th of April, 1824. 

Lord Byron was, thus, a young man when he 
died. Personal descriptions of the Poet are abun- 
dant. In 1823, Lady Blessington was intimately 
acquainted with him at Genoa. According to 
her account, his appearance was highly prepos- 
sessing ; "his head," she says "is finely shaped, 
^ and the forehead open, high, and noble ; his eyes 
\ are gray, and full of expression, but one is visibly 
larger than the other ; his mouth is the most re- 
markable feature in his face, — the upper lip of 
Grecian shortness, and the corners descending 
the lips full and finely cut ; his chin is large and 
well shaped; his face is peculiarly pale." She 
adds that " although slightly lame, the deformity 
of his foot is but little remarkable. ' ' 

The biographers of Lord Byron are almost as 
numerous as his Works. The wonderful genius 
of the Poet procured for him an extent of popu- 
larity unparalleled in his age ; and the public 
sought eagerly for every anecdote that could 
afford the smallest insight into his character. 
Few men could have borne so searching a test. 
His biographers, vidthout exception, have arrived 
at conclusions prejudicial to his character ; it is, 
therefore, impossible for an editor who would 
sum up their evidence, to recommend any other 
verdict, than that which has been given. It i 



time to discard the old superstition. Nil nisi 
bonum, as at once unphilosophical and deroga- 
tory to the character of any man, who seeks to 
live "for aye, in Fame's eternal temple." Nil 
nisi verum, should be the motto of the dead. 
It may be ungracious to disobey the mandate, 

" Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower," 

but the warning cannot have reference to the 
spear of Ithuriel. Truth is so precious, that it 
never costs too much. We protest at the outset 
of our labours against all reference to private cha- 
racter, and comment upon private life ; but we 
must always except cases where they are mixed 
up with polished writings which influence, and 
are designed to influence, the universal mind. 
Many of the Poems of Lord Byron have a danger- 
ous tendency ; they are calculated to remove 
the hideous features of vice, and present it, if not 
in a tempting, at least in a natural and pardonable 
Hght. Whether it was a genuine sentiment, or a 
gross affectation, it matters not ; but it was the 
frequent boast of the Poet, that he scorned and 
hated human kind ; and out of this feeling, or 
this pretension, grew his labours to corrupt it. It 
was not alone against things held sacred by 
society, that his spleen and venom were directed : 
he strove to render odious some of the best and 
purest men that have ever lived ; and his attacks 
were not the momentary ebulUtions of dislike, 
but the produce of deep and settled hatred, — the 
more bitter in proportion as the cause was small. 
To the various circumstances that are said to have 
warped his mind, we cannot here refer. We per- 
form an imperative duty, in a work which must find 
its way among the young and enthusiastic, when 
we warn the reader of his exquisite poetry, that 
danger lurks under the leaves. The Poems of 
Byron will live, as he had a right to anticipate they 
would, "with his land's language." The amazing 
power he possessed of searching into and poiir- 
traying character, — his prodigious skill in versifi- 
cation, — his fine perception of the subhme and 
beautiful in nature, — his graceful and unforced 
wit, — his deep readings of human passion, — his 
accurate knowledge of the secret movements of 
the human heart, — were so many keys to hie 
wonderful and universal success. 



(175) 



176 



LORD BYRON 



OHILDE HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 



A ROMAUNT 



TO lANTHE. 

Not in those climes wiiere I have late been 

straying, 
Tho' beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'd, 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
-Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught hke thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they 

beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could 

they speak ? 

Ah ! m.ay'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Norunbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing. 
And guileless beyond hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening. 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disap- 
pears. 

Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee. 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline. 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall 

bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest 

hours decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly 

sigh. 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question 

why 
To one so young, my strain I would commend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily 

blend 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: 
My days once number'd, should this homage 
past 



Attract, thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast. 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than hope can claim, could friend- 
ship less require ? 



CANTO L 

I. . 

Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth. 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I've wander' d by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of m.ine. 

n. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless M'ight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

HI. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his 

name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coflin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied hes of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide san. 
Disporting there Uke any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done. 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'dby, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's 
sad cell. 



For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose 

kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste , 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gilde his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to 

taste. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



177 



VL 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But pride congeard the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching cUmes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for 

woe. 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the 

shades below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall: 

It was a vast and venerable pile : 

So old, it seemed only not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 

Where Superstition once had made her den 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come 

agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 

men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Ha- 
rold's brow. 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul. 
That feels rehef by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not 
control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and 

bower 
He gather' d revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea, none ctid love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's 

care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by 

glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where setaphs might 

despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of 

steel ; 
Ye who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to 

heal. 

23 



XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy 

hands. 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine. 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's 
central hue. 

XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view. 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. 

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 

He seized his harp, which he at times could 

string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good 

Night." 

1. 

"Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native land — Good Night I 



A few short hours and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

3. 

" Come hither, hither, my little page ' 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ! 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 



178 



LORD BYRON, 



' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



' My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
" Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry. 

6. 

" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 

Why dost thy look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ?" 
' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

7. 

' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake. 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ?' — 
" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 



" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 

9. 

" And now I'm in the world alone. 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan. 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain. 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again. 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

10. 

" With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 



Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native land — Good Night !" 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their 

way. 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rus- 
tics reap. 

XV. 

Oh ! Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this' delicious land ; 
What fi-uits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
' What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand; 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high 

command. 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 
purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ? 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid aflbrd : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride. 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the 

sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 

lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town. 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be. 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd, unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest 

scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men f 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates. 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



179 



Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's 
gates ? 

XIX. 
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown' d, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies im- 

brown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must 

weep. 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty 

glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many- winding way. 
And frequent turn to hnger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe ;" 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punished been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials fraO of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's 

knife , 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures 

not life. 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilome kings did make 

repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only 

breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest 

son. 
Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware 
When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath 

done, 
Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to 

shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure 

plan. 
Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by man. 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide : 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supphed ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide ! 



XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late con- 
vened ! 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A httle fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll. 
Where blazon' d glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll. 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And poHcy regain' d what arms had lost : 
For chiefs hke ours in vain may laurels bloom I 
Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host, 
Smce bafiled triumph droops on Lusitania's coast ! 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra I at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret. 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 

shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer. 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here. 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a 

coming year ? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 

Did take his way in solitary guise : 

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to 

flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious reason whisper' d to despise ; 
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim 
But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew 

dim. 

xxvm. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits. 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o' er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage. 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
sage. 

XXIX. 
Yet Maft'a shall one moment claim delay, 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless 

queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen : 



180 



LORD BYRON, 



Lordliiigs and freeres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 

But here the Babylonian whore hath built 

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious 

sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish 
guiU. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 

place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to 

trace. 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to viev; the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds 

tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 

knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: 
For Spain is compass' d by unyielding foes, 
And all must sliield their all, or share subjection's 

woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, hke China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from 
Gaul: 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the 
low. 

XXXIV. 
But, ere the mi-.^Mng bounds have far been 

pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 

strong ; 



The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts 
oppress'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh! lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic 

gore ? 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam' d the cross, and waned the crescent 
pale, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish ma- 
trons' wail. 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 

estate. 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue. 
When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does 

thee wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries. 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumejge in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing (bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's 

roar : 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 
shore ? 

XXXVIII. 
Hark ! — heard you not those hoofs of dreadful 

note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the wreaking sabre smote : 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to 

rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to 

breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 

shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix' d, and now anon 
Flashing afar,— and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are 
done ; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



181 



For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems 
most sweet. 

XL. 
By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their 

lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 

XLII. 

There shall they rot — ambition's honour'd fools! 
Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their 

clay ! 
Vain sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their 

sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by 

bone? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief ! 
As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed. 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and 

bleed ! 
Peace to the perish' d ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong I 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead. 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng. 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of tran- 
sient song ! 

XLIV. 
Enough of battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
Though thousands fall to deck some single 

name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's 



And die, that living might have proved her 

shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path 

pursued. 



XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ' 
Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude. 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour! 'gainst fate to strive 
Where desolation plants her famished brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive. 
And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to 
thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume. 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 

wounds : 
Not here war's clarion, but love's rebeck sounds; 
Here folly still his votaries enthralls ; 
And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight 

rounds : 
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring 

walls. 

XL VII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate^ 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar. 
Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be 
happy yet. 

XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay. 

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 

His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 

No! as he speeds, he chaunts: — "Viva el 

Rey !" 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed 
boy, 
And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulte- 
rate joy. 

XL IX. 
On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 

ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the green sward's dark- 
en' d vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the 

host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's 

nest : 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won 
and lost. 



182 



LORD BYRON. 



L. 

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to 

greet : 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the GaUic foeman rue. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 

smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station' d bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 

A httle moment deigneth to delay : 

Soon will his legions sweep through these their 

way; 
The West must own the scourger of the world. 
Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day. 
When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings 

unfurl' d. 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades 

hurl'd ! 

LIII. 

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the 

brave. 
To swell one bloated chiefs unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate valour acts in vain ? 
And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, 
The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's 

heart of steel ? 

LIV. 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused. 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused. 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread. 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might 
quake to tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale. 
Oil ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black 
veil. 



Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face. 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearfm 
chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope 

is lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'dby awoman's hand, before a batter 'd wall? 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate; 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance 
as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his 

touch : 
Her hps, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wldly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phcebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the north for paler dames would 

seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, 

and weak ! 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harams of the land! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign 

to know 
There your wise prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically 

kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now survey, 

Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye. 

Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky. 

In the wild pomp of mountain majesty '. 

What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



183 



Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
wave her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious 

name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest 

lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame. 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar. 
But gaze beneath thy clouded canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow' d scene. 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the muses' seat, art now their grave. 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious 
wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear. 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle 
vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair mount ! when Greece 

was young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful 

shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her 

glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 

days ; 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze, 
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 

shape. 



LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by tune — accursed time ! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to 

thee — 
The Pleasure's fled, but sought as warm a 

clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of 

white : 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled 

morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by 

turns. 

Lxvm. 

The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng' d arena shakes with shouts for 

more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to 



LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of 

prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse 

chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs 

whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make 

repair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian 

churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 

Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to 

Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of mystery, 



184 



LORD BYRON 



In whose dread name both men and maids are 
sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance 
till morn. 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea! 
Soon as the matin-bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Viegin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare. 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion 
share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to 

die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad 

archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light- 
poised lance. 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds. 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly 

prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely 

glance. 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils 
repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd. 
But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; hut not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 

o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his 

speed : 
His arm's a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed, 
Alas ! to oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls. 
The den expands, and expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty 

brute. 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding 

foot. 
The sand, nor bhndly rushes on his foe ; 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to 

suit 



His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd: away. 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers 

veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent 

clear ; 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance; loud bellowings 

speak his woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail. 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch' d a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils fife's panting source. 
Though death-struck still his feeble frame he 

rears. 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd 

he bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 

brast. 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play. 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering 

way- 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand. 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the 



LXXIX. 

Where hisvast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline ; 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphing cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes. 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing 
by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 

swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet 

the foe. 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain. 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blov/, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 

stream must flow. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



185 



LXXXI. 

But jealousy has fled; his bars, his bolts, 
His withered sentinel, duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could engage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish' d age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving 
queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved. 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn' d with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem. 
Full from the fount of Joy's dehcious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 
flings. 

Lxxxin. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign' d to bend her chastely-awful eyes ; 
But passion raves herself to rest, or flies; 
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting 

doom. 

LXXXIV. 
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the 

song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's 

sway, 
And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated lay. 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier 

day. 



TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nat, smile not at my sullen brow, 

Alas ! I cannot smile again ; 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Should' St weep, and haply weep in vain. 
2. 
And dost thou ask, what secret woe 

I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
3. 
It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low ambition's honours lost, 
That bids me loathe my present state, 

And fly from all I prized the most ; 
34 



It is that weariness which springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
5. 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 

But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 
What exile from himself can flee ? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The bhght of life — the demon thought. 

7. 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem. 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least hke me, awake ! 
8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
9. 
What is that worst ! Nay, do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the hell that's there, 



LXXXV. 



Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ! 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : 
Here all were noble, save nobiUty ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen 
chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slave of treachery ; 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife. 
War, war is still the cry, " wareven to the knife !" 

LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 

know. 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: 
Whate'er keen vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's Hfe : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife. 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need- 
So may he guard the sister and the wife. 



186 



LORD BYRON. 



So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless 
deed ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleach- 

ing stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we 

saw! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done. 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees ; 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls murder un- 
restrain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 

Not Albuera, lavish of the dead, 

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 

When shall her olive-branch be free from blight ? 

When shall she breathe her from the blushing 

toil? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the 

soil ! 

XCI. 

And thou, my friend ! — since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low. 
Pride might forbid ev'n friendship to complain : 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast. 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain. 
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peaceably to rest ? 

xcn. 

Oh ! known the earhest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost. 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier. 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose. 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 



Is this too much ? stern critic 1 say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands 
were quell' d. 



CANTO II. 
I. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou 

alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire. 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish' d 
breasts bestov,'. 

II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in 

soul? 
Gone, gUmmering thro' the dream of things 

that were : 
First in the race that led to glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour? 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering 

tower. 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade 

of power. 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn ; 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their 

turn : 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other 

creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is 

built on reeds. 

IV. 
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanish' d hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 
He fell, and falUng nations mourn'd around : 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



ll,Q.9 



Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter' d heaps : 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd 
cell. 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, 
And passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot 

shun? 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated 

guest. 
But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome 

rest. 

VIII. 

Yet if, as hohest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught 
the right. 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled. 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee 

dead. 
When busy memory flashes on my brain? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again. 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young remembrance then remain. 
Be as it may futurity's behest. 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit 

blest ! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne: 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can fancy's eye 
Restore what time hath labour' d to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh — 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols 
by. 



XI. 
But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas Hnger'd, loth to flee, 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy freeborn men should spare what once was 

free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant 
brine. 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath 

spared : 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast. 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard. 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand pre- 
pared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 
And never knew, till then, the weight of despots* 
chains. 

XIII. 

What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom 

wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid hername endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hanpl, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to 

stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine agis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way ? 
Where Peleus' son ? whom hell in vain 

enthrall'd. 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day. 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once 

more , 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 

before. 

XV. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on 

thee. 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines 

removed 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they 

roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern 

climes abhorr'd ! 



188 



LORD BYRON. 



XVI. 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
/ To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 

Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 

No lov'd-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 

No friend the parting hand extended gave, 

Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other chmes: 

Hard is his heart whom charms may not en- 
slave ; 

But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVIL 
He that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right. 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their 

flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

xvin. 

And oh, the httle warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high: 
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle 

ghdes : 
Or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by. 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain. 
Where on the watch the staid heutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their 
strength to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! 
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas. 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like 
these ! 

XXI. 
The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves 

expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantune some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 



Or to some well-known measure featly move 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to 
rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy 

shore ; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor 
Ahke beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning 

phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown. 
From mountain-cliflT to coast descending sombre 

down. 

XXIII. 

'Tis night, when meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a 

friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to 

bend. 
When youth itself survives young love and joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend. 
Death hath but httle left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be 

a boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere \ 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart 
divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
To chmb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her 

stores unroll' d. 

XXVI. 

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 

men. 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can 

bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGPaMAGE. 



189 



XXVII. 
More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lovely Athos may be seen, 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so 

serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the 

tack, 
And each well-known caprice of wave and 

wind; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is 

well. 

XXIX. 
But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to 

weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For liim who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay' d the dreadful leap 
Stem Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen 
doubly sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne. 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine. 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for 
mine. 

XXXI. 
Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought. 
Save admiration glancmg harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
But knew him as his worshipper no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore. 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was 
o'er. 

XXXII. 
Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe. 



Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their 

law; 
All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely 
anger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride. 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares hcentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doated on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining 
crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once pos- 

sess'd? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with women copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns 
thy hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson; time approves it true. 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo. 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful passion! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For v/e have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led-^ 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be 
taught. 

xxxvn. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still. 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill. 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd 

child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild. 
Where nothing polish' d dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled. 
Though I have mark'd her when none other 

hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved her 

best in wrath. 



190 



LORD BYRON, 



XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he, his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress-grove within each 
city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who hfe eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the l^e, 
That only heaven to which earth's children may 
aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Child Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar : 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ; 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not deUght 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at 
martial wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount. 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his paUid 
front. 

XLII. 
Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak. 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view ; 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants 

were few ; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet, 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new; 



This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet. 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed 
summer's heat. 

XLIV. 
Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scofFd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper' d priesthood dear ; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition! howsoe'er disguised. 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized. 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy 
dross ? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's tropliies rose ! 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering: 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain' d for such to win and 
lose? 

XL VI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 

Ev'n to the centre of lUyria's vales, 

Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount 

sublime. 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tcmpe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most. 
To match some spots that lurk within this lower- 
ing coast. 

XL VII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake. 
And left the primal city of the land. 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread com 

mand 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! fi'om thy shady brow. 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet 
please the soul. 

XLIX. 
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



191 



The convent's white v/allsghsten fair on high: 
Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer-by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen to 
see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve 
away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 
Chimsera's Alps extend from left to right ; 
Beneath, a Uving valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the 

mountain fir 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall 
seek for none ! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills ! here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock. 
The httle shepherd in his white capote 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived 
shock. 

LIII. 
Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove. 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 

shrine ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink 

beneath the stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ! 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance. 
Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnight's 
solemn trance. 



LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing 

nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelhng the breeze that sigh'd along the length- 

'ning glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, 
x'^nd, underneath the wide o'erarching gate, 
Survey' d the dwelling of this chief of power. 
Where all around proclaim' d his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons 

wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every chme appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store 
Circled the wide-extending court below : 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
And oft-times through the Area's echoing door 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed 

away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the 

Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the 

close of day. 

Lvni. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek, 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous: some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to 

prate ; 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn 

sound, 
The Muezza's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God !— to prayer— lo ! God 

is great!" 

LX. 
Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 



192 



LORD BYRON. 



But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard: apart, 
A.nd scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears. 
Who never quits the breast no meaner passion 
shares. 

Lxn. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
While gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face. 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
disgrace. 

Lxni. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
III suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conqtiers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal 
span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 



began. 



LXIV 



'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated grandeur from the city's noise: 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But peace abhorreth artificial joys. 
And pleasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of 
both destroys. 

LXV. 
Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship 

sure. 
When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may 

lead. 



LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's 

tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And after view'd them, when, within their 

power. 
Himself awhile the victim of distress; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier 

press : 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheer' d him 

less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand 

the proof! 

LXVII. 
It chanced that adverse winds once drove his 

bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark ; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting 

sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher- 
work. 

LXVIII. 
Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch' d the welcome 

hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 

swamp. 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments 

damp, 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful 

lamp. 
And spread their fare : though homely, all they 

had: 
Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad. 
Doth lesson happier men, and sharnes at least the 

bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide. 
In war well season' d, and with labours tann'd 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide. 
And from his further bank ^Etolia's worlds 
espied. 

LX. 
Where lone Utraikey forms its curling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the 

west. 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



193 



Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from night's soft pre- 
sence glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly 

blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment, had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past. 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each palikar his sabre from him cast. 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kir- 
tled clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie. 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee. 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free. 
The long wild locks that to their girdles 

stream' d, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sung, 

half scream' d : 



" Tameourgi ! Tambourgi !* thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, lUyrian, and dark SuHote ! 

2. 
Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild 

flock, 
And descends to the plain hke the stleam from 
the rock, 

3. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 

The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 

Let those guns so unerring such vengeance 

forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase ; 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, be- 
fore 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the 

waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



Shall win the young bride with her long-flowing 

hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned 

lyre. 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 
The shrieks of the conquer' d, the conquerors' 

yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we 

shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we 

spared. 

9. 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 

He neither must know who would serve the 

vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er 

saw 
A chief ever glorious Hke All Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped. 
Let the yellow -haired* Giaourst view his horse- 

tailt with dread ; 
When hisDelhis^ come dashing in blood o'er the 

banks. 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! 

li, 

Selictar III unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad reUc of departed worth I 
Immortal, though no more ; tho' fallen, great' 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long-accustom' d bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did a wail. 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the 
tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which 

now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 

* Drummer. 
25 



* Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 
f Infidels. 

X Horse-tails are the insignia of a pacha. 
$ Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hopp 
II Sword-bearer. 



194 



LORD BYRON, 



Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish 
hand, 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed 
unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In all, save form alone, how changed: and 

who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost hberty ? 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their father's heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mourn- 
ful page. 

LXXVI. 
Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the 

blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be 

wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no I 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the 

same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of 

shame. 

Lxxvn. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 

The Giaour from Othman's race again may 

wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of end- 
less toil. 

Lxxvni. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rifes prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment that thine. 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her 

throng. 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus 

along. 



LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the sh<!>re , 
Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echoed back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The queen of tides on high consenting shone. 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the 

wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave. 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks 
they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam. 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may with- 
stand. 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem life's years 
of ill! 

LXXXII. 

But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret 

pain, 
Ev'n through the closest searment half be- 

tray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern dis- 
dain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud. 
And long to change the robe of revel for the 
shroud ? 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast ; 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondman's peace, who sighs for all he 

lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe 

thee most ; 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime re- 
cord 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate 
horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood. 
When Thebes Epamiiiondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then niay'st thou be restored ; butnot till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust ; and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish time and 
fate? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



195 



LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 
Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now : 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Comminghng slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some sohtary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half- forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering hke me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
" Alas!" 

LXXXVIL 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy 

fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the bhthe bee his fragrant fortress builds. 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fah. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the muse's tales seem truly told. 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: 
Each hill and dale, each decp'ning glen and 

wold 
Defies the power which crush' d thy temples 

gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray 

Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant glory dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ; 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's 
career. 

XC. 
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursiung spear ; 
Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below ; 
Death in the front, destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 



What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground. 
Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound. 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! 
spurns around. 

XCL 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright chme of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged i lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 

If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome 

hearth ; 
He that is lonely hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side. 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and 
Persian died, 

XCIIL 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste: 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed ; 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was 
rear'd. 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial 

praise ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve. 
And none are left to please when none are left to 

love. 

XCV. 
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's aflfections bound to 

me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more 

shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause 

to roam ! 



196 



LORD BYRON. 



XC VI. 
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved 1 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! 

thou hast : 
The parent, friend, and now the more than 

friend : 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to 

lend. 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that peace disdains to seek ? 
Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud. 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they 

cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow. 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy'd: 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And ^f<-ith the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



CANTO III. 



" Afin que cette application vous forgat de penser a 
3MUe chose, il n'y a en v^rite de remede que celui-Ia 
et le temps." — Lettre du Rot de Prusse a Dalemhert, 
Sept 1, 1776. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they 

smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I kno-^not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or 
glad mine eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters 1 yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar 1 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 



Though the strain' d mast should quiver as a 

reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale. 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's 

breath prevail. 

III. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up 

tears. 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 



appears. 



IV. 



Since my young days of passion — ^joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling ; 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful 

theme. 

V. 
He, who grown aged in this world of vv^oe. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of hfe, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet 

rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted 

cell. 

VI. 

'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, ev'n as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing ; but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse 

earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
MLx'd with thy spirit, blended with thy bn-th, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush' d feelings' 

dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirhng gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame. 
My springs of hfe were poison'd. 'Tis too late! 
Yet am I changed; though still enough the 

same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S P I LC^JRIM AG E. 



197 



VIII. I 

Something too much of this : — but now 'tis 

past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Hakold re-appears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not but 

ne'er heal ; 
Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the 

brim. 

IX. 

His had been quafF'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd 

again, 
And from a purer fount, on hoher ground. 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen. 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with 

pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew 

keen. 
Entering with every step he took, through many 

a scene. 



Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheathed with an invtilnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to 

find 
Fit speculation ! such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 

hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 

To wear it ? who can curiously behold 

The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 

cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate fame through clouds 

unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roU'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing time. 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 

prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 

Of men to herd with man ; with whom he 

held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 

quell' d 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 



:i]i. 



Where rose the mountaiii.5, 'nert' lu \nn\ were 

friends ; 
Where roU'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
Where a blue sky and glowing clinit exiends. 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake. 
For nature's pages, glass' d by sunbeams on the 

lake. 

XIV. 
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born 

jars. 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the hght 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to 
its brink. 

XV. 
But in man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern aird wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 

With nought of hope left, but with less of 

gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain. 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the plun- 
der' d wreck 
V/iien mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking 
deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII. 

Stop ! — for thy tread is on an empire's dust ! 
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column Irophied for triumphal show ? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making victory ? 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 



198 



LORD BYROX 



In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter' d links of the v/orld's broken 
chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving thraldom again be 
The patch' d- up idol of enlightened days ? 
Shall we, who struck the lion down, shall we 
Pay the wolf homage ? profTering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before 
ye praise ? 

XX. 
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all men borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 
There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 

men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
But hush I hark ! a deep sound strikes like a 

rising knell. 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car ratthng o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined, 
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure 

meet, 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once 

more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadUer than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it 

near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch' d his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could 

quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, 

fell. 



XXIV. 

Ah \ then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking 

sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could 

guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could 

rise? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the 

steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They 

come ! they come!" 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" 

rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 
foes : — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which 

fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
man's ears ! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green 

leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 

The morn the marshalUng in arms, — the day 

Battle's magnificently- stern array 1 

The thunder-clouds clpse o'er it, which when 

rent, 
The earth is cover' d thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 

pent. 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — ^in one red burial 

blent ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



199 



XXIX. 
Their praise is hyiim'd by loi'tier harps than 

mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadhest the thinn'd files 

along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest 

lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, 

gallant Howard ! 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for 

thee. 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which hving waves where thou didst cease to 

live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could 

not bring. 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forge tfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The archangel's trump, not glory's, must 

awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound 

of fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour' d but assumes a stronger, bitterer 

claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 

mourn : 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be 

torn; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind- worn battlements are 

gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through though storms keep out 

the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 

Hve on : 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it 

breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold. 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 



Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are 

untold. 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair. 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 
Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste ; did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of hfe, — say, would he 
name three-score ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him ev'n that fleeting 

span. 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
MilUons of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
And this is much, and all which will not pass 

away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with hke firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
And shake again the world, the thunderer of the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than 

now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame. 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst 

assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling wdth nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' neckB thy footstool, 

now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, re- 
build. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of 
war. 
Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 



200 



LORD BYRON. 



XXXIX. 
Yet well thy soul hath brook' d the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride. 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 

smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; ' twas wise to feel, 

not so 
To wear it ever on thy hp and brow, 
And spurn the in,struments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 

choose. 

XLL 
If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone. 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved 

thy throne, 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 

XLII. 
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIIL 

This makes the madmen who have made men 

mad 
By their contagion ; conquerors and kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, bards, .statesmen, all unquiet things. 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are their' s ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the luat to shine 

or rule. 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their hfe 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrovv and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 



With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts iiigloriousiy. 

XLV. 
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 

snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread. 
Hound him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits 

led. 

XLVI. 
Away with these ! true wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells. 
Fruit, fohage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, 

vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly 

dwells. 

XL VII. 
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and 

proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below, 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere 

now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future 

blow. 

XLVIII. 
Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws conquerors .should have 
But history's purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were 

full as brave. 

XLIX. 
In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died i 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts Vv'ould glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour' d Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 

But thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for 

ever, 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGR1P4AGE. 



201 



Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to 

me 
Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should 

Lethe be. 

LI. 
A thousand battles have assail' d thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 

ranks — 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
The tide wasli'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray, 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting 

dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 

seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere. 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with tran- 
sient trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that, we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt. 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet 

trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt. 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 

LIV. 

And he had learn'd to love — I know not why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nature ; what subdued 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
glow. 

LV. 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though 

unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 

Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 



pour. 



1. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 

And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these. 

Whose far white v/alls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert tliou with me ! 

2. 
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes. 

And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lours 
And noble arch in proud decay. 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 



I send the hlies given to me ; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 

But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish' d them as dear. 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 

When thou behold' st them drooping nigh, 
And know' St them gaiher'd by the Rhine, 
And offer' d from my heart to thine I 



The river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To Nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 

LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's 

Hd, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom. 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to 

resume. 

LVII. 
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 

career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and 

foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 



26 



202 



LORD BYRON. 



For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise whicli she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
wept. 

LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter' d wall, 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and 

ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light ; 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain 
But peace destroy' d what war could never 

blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's 

rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd 

m vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long dehghted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 

The mind is colour' d by thy every hue ; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cherish' d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 

'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 

More mighty spots may rise — more glaring 

shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old 
days. 

LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art; and these withal 
A race effaces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires 
near them fall. 

Lxn. 

But these rpcede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of nature , whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 



Gather around these summits, as to show 
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain 
mail below. 

Lxni. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Moral ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slam. 
Nor blush for those who conquer' d on that 

plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian 

coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 

wandering ghost. 

LXIV. 
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true glory's stainless victories. 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-eniaU'd corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic 
clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 

A gray and grief- worn aspect of old days ; 

'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 

And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 

Of one to stone converted by amaze, 

Yet still with consciousness ; and there it 

stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subjeet 

lands. 

LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the 

name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a 

claim 
Nearest to heaven's, broke o'er a father's 

grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would 

crave 

The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 

And then she died on him she could not save. 

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 

And held within their urn one mind, one heart, 

one dust. 

Lxvn. 

But these are deeds which should not pass 

away. 
And names that must not wither, though the 

earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death 

and birth ; 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



203 



The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, hke yonder Alpine snow, 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVIII. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect, in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and 

hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall lonehness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of 

old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in 

their fold. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where none 
are strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the bhght 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
And colour things to come with hues of night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite. 
But there are wanderers o'er eternity, 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
shall.be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear. 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict 
or bear ? 

LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me, 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
Class' d among creatures, when the soul can 

flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 



LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: 

I look upon the peopled desert past 

As on a place of agony and strife, 

Where, for some sin, to sorrow was I cast, 

To act and suffer, but remount at last 

With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 

Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on dehghted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our 

being cling. 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free, 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the spirit of each spot, 
Of which, even now, I share at times the im- 
mortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a 

part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which 

dare not glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all 
rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he 

knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly 

and fast. 

LXXVIII. 
His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour' d, were in him the same. 



204 



LORD BYRON. 



But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflov/ing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it 
seems. 

LXXIX. 
Tkis breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would 

meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek 

possest. 

LXXX. 
His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and 

blind. 
But he was phrenzied, — wherefore, who may 

know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could never 

find; 
But he was phrenzied by disease or woe. 
To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning 

show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came. 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no 

more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembUng, to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers. 
Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'er- 

grown fears ? 

LXXXII. 
They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they 

rent, 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 
re-fill'd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-wfll'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it 

felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 



On one another; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they. 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their 
prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been van- 

quish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission: in his lair 
FLx'd passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been 
so moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet 

clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and, drawing near. 
There breathes a Uving fragrance from the 

shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the fight drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol 

more : 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; 
But that is fancy, for the starhght dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 
Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the 

fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, fife, have named 
themselves a star. 



CHILDE HAROLD^y PILGRIMAGE. 



205 



LXXXIX. 
All heaven and earth are still — though not in 

sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling 

most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : from the high 

host 
Of stars, to the lulPd lake and mountain- 
coast, 
All is concenter' d in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth 

melt. 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes 

known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cj'therea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 

harm. 

xcr. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
Unrear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy 
prayer. 

XCII. 

The sky is changed I — and such a change ! Oh 

night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 

strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone 

cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 

aloud ! 

XCIIL 

And this is in the night : — most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 



XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intei-vene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted ; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other 

thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which bhghted their life's bloom, and then 

departed ; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to 
wage. 

XCV. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his 

way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 

fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand. 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 

lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! 

ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye Uke these within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 

nest? 

XCVII. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 

weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 

word. 
And that one word were Lightning, I would 

speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 

sword. 

XCVHL 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all 

bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 



206 



LORD BYRON. 



And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 
Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep 

love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate 

thought : 
Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above 
The very glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that 

woos, then mocks. 

C. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the 

god 
Is a pervading life to light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkhng, and his breath hath blown. 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender 
power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most deso- 
late hour. 

CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black 

pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he hsteneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the 

shore 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore. 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
But hght leaves, young as joy, stands where it 

stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous soUtude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things. 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than 

words. 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that 

lore. 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's 

woes. 
And the world's waste, have driven him far 

from those, 



For 'tis his nature to advance or die; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

CIV. 

' Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the 
Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd 
a throne. 

CV. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have . been the 

abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 

roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder and 

the flame . 

Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
On man and man's research could deign do more 

than smile. 

CVL 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents : but his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,— 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a 
throne. 

CVIL 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew 

from fear. 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIIL 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; 
The hour must come when such things shall be 

made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



207 



CIX. 
But lei me quit man's works again to read 
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the power of 
air. 

ex. 

Italia! too, — Italia! looking on thee, 
Full flashes on the soul the hght of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages. 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still. 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial 
hill. 

CXI. 
Thus far I have proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought ; 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song. 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along. 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile. 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin' d my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and 
still could. 
Had Inot filed my mind, which thusitself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
Though I have found them not, that there may 

be 
Words which are things, — ^hopes which will not 

deceive, 



And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve, 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no 
dream. 

CXV. 
My daughter! with thy name this song be- 
gun— 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall 

end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is 
cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's 
mould. 

CXVI. 
To aid thy mind's developement, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee hghtly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for 

me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to 

this. 

CXVII. 
Yet, though dull hate as duty should be 

taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me; though my 

name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 

fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere 

the same — 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to 

drain 
3Iy blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than 

life retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far 

higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the 

sea. 
And from the mountains where I now re- 
spire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might' st have been 
tome! 



20o 



LORD BYRON. 



CANTO IV, 



Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
Q,uel monte che divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e V altro, clie la bagna. 

ARIOSTO, Satira iii. 



I. 

I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her 
hundred isles ! 

II. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their 

dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 

East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkhng showers : 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in- 
creased. 

III. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish' d sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away. 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were 
o'er, 
For us re-peopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence : that which fate 



Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits suppHed 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have 
died. 
And with a fresher growth replenishuig the void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from hope, the last from vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mme 

eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reahty 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like 

dreams : 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would, still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIIL 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange 

eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to inake, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea ? 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — ^if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember' d in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and fax 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull obliviou 
bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour' d by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted ; they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fru.it would spring 
from such a seed. 



I HILOE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



■209 



Xi. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord: 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd 
dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian 

reigns — 
An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have 

felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen' d from the mountain's 

belt; 
Qh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Tn* octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering 

foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their- gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
Are they not. bridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and 

shun, 
Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous 



repose. 



XIV. 



la youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 
Statues of glass — all shiver' d — the long file 
Of her dead doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous 
pile 
- Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely 
walls. 

XVI. 
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 



Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 

Her voice their only ransom from afar : 

See I as they chaunt the tragic hymn, the car 

Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 

Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 

Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's 

chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 

strains. 

XVIL 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the ocean queen should not 
Abandon ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery 
wall. 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, RadclifFe, Schiller, Shakspeare's 

art, 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I foimd her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a 
show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and (hought, 
And meditation chasten'd dov\rn, enough ! 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or siiught : 
And of the happiest moments which were 

wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice I have their colours 

caught ; 
There are some feehngs time cannot benumb, 
Nor torture shake, or mine would nov/ be cold 

and dumb. 

XX. 
But from their nature will the tannca grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms: yet springs the trunk, and 

mocks 
The howUng tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose 

blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the 

same. 

XXI. 
Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of hfe and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labours with the heaviest load, 



37 



210 



LORD BYRON 



And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event 
Ends: — some, with hope replenish'd and re- 
buoy 'd. 
Return to whence they came — with like intent. 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and 

bent 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their 

time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or 
climb : 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of grief subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which 

bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would 

fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music, — summer's eve — or spring, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 

wound. 
Striking the electric chain wherevwth we are 

quickly bound ; 

XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The bhght and blackening which it leaves 

behind. 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind. 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 

anew 
The mourn' d, the loved, the lost — too many ! yet 

how few ! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and 



XXVI. 
The commonwealth of kings, the men of 

Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all art yields, and nature can decree ; 



Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility : 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be de- 
faced. 

XXVII. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night: — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the west, 
Where the day joins the past eternity : 
While, on the other hand, meek Diana's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the 
blest ! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As day and night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd 
within it glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with th&, face of heaven, which, from 

afar. 
Comes down tipon the waters : all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies hke the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is 

gray. 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear' d in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to 
fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their 

pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plaui 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feehng more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental 

fane. 



CKILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



311 



XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the 

eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
. It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must 

strive. 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their 

prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a do6m 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude. 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The v/reath which Dante's brow alone had worn 
before. 

XXXVI. 
And Tasso is their glory and their .shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame ! 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and 

blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter' d the clouds away — and on that name 

attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 

Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 

Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted 

line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the hnk 



Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso I how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to 
mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thoit.' form'd to eat, and be despised, and 

die. 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He ! with a glory round his furrow' d brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
No strain which sham'd his country's creaking 

lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 
Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows; but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how 

long 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and countless 

throng 
Compose a mind like thine ! though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not 

form a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who called 

forth 
A new creation with his magic line. 
And, like the Ariosto of the north, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 

worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 

The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 

Nor was the ominous element unjust. 

For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 

Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 

And the false semblance but disgraced his 

brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves. 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate'er it strikes ; yon head is doubly sacred 

now. 

XLII. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 

The fatal gift of beauty, which became 

A funeral dower of present woes and past, 

On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough' d by shame, 

And annals graved in characters of flame. 

Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 

Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 



212 



LORD BYRON. 



Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy 
distress ; 

XLIII. 

Then might' st thou more appal ; or, less de- 
sired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile 

horde 
Of many-nation' d spoilers from the Po 
QuaiFblood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or 
foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth I traced the path of him, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal 

mind. 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
iEgina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter' d site, 
Which only make more mourn' d and more 

endear' d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter' d light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish' d might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The jnoral lesson bears, drawn from such pil- 
grimage. 

XL VI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 

His country's ruin added to the mass 

Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their de- 

chne. 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is; and now, alas ! 
Rome— Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titan tic form. 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are 



XL VII. 
Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should wring, and shall, from side 

to side ; 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 

driven, 
RoU the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



XLVIII. 
But A mo wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her thealre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps 
To laughing Ufe, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern luxury of commerce born, 
And buried learning rose, redeem' d to a new 
morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when nature's self would 

fail, 
And to the fond idolators of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could 

mould : 



We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms pre- 
cise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where pedantry gulls folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan 
shepherd's prize. 

LI, 

Appear' dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, aa 
from an urn ? 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love. 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments hke their brightest; but the 

weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
From what has been or might be, things which 

grow 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIIL 

I leave to learned fingers, and vnse hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



313 



Let these describe the undescribable : 

I would not their vile breath should crisp the 

stream, 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 

Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 

Even in itself an immortality. 

Though there were nothing save the past, and 

this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it 
rose. 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
Time, which hath wrong' d thee with ten thou- 
sand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they 

lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common 

clay 
In death as hfe ? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles naught to 

say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence 1 Dante sleeps afar, 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely 

wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not 

thine own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath' d 
His dust, — and lies it not her great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem 

breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song. 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyssna bigot's wrong. 



No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more; 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore. 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour' d sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead 
and weeps. 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead. 
Whose names are mausoleums of the muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and 

eyes 
In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, 
Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies| 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, 
Than art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which iS 

wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
Where courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the saltry plain, with legions scat- 
ter'd o'er 

LXIII. 
Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 
None felt stern nature rocking at his feet. 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring natioiw 
meet ! 

LXIV. 

The earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to eternity ; they saw 
The ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessels: nature's law 



LORD BYRON, 



214 

In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and 

the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
From their down-topphng nests ; and bellowing 

herds 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread 

hath no words. 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath 

ta'en — 
A Uttle rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling 

waters red. 

LXVL 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her hmbs where nothing hid them, thou dost 

rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaugh- 
ters — 
A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest 
daughters ! 

Lxvn. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales. 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its 
bubbling tales. 

LXVIIL 

Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 



LXX. 
And mounts in spray the skies, and (hence 

again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground. 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the chffs, which, downward worn 
and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fear- 
ful vent 

LXXI. 
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the 

throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
With many windings, through the vale : — look 

back 1 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchlees 
cataract, 

LXXII. 
Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the 

pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauvvine — might be worshipped 

more ; 
But I have seen the soaring .lungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and 

near, 
— And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, JEina, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 
For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves Uke a long-swept wave about to break, 
I And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
I May he, who will, his recollections rake . 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



215 



And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I al)horr"d 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill' d dull lesson, forced down word by 
word 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aughi that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though time hath 

taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have 

sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health : but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art. 
Nor liveHer satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without wounding the touch' d 

heart. 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we 

part. 

LXXVIII. 
Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
"What are our woes and sufferance ? Come 

and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither' d hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her 
distress ! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and 

fire. 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and 

wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a 

site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 



O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar hght, 
And say. " here was, or is," where all is doubly 
night ? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt and 

wrap 
AH round us ; we but feel our way to err ; 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And knowledge spreads them on her ample 

lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka !" it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of riun rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! 
Alas, for TuUy's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome 
was free ! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's 

wheel. 
Triumphant Sylla ! thou who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to 

feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly 

crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which 

made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be 

laid? 
She who was named eternal, and array'd. 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd. 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
Her rushing wings — Ohl she who was almighty 

hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the 

throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him wan two realms, and, happier, yield 
his breath. 



216 



LORD BYRON 



LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former 

course 
Had all but crown' d him, on the self same 

day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
And show'd not fortune thus how fame and 

sway, 
And all we deem delightful, an(l consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous 

way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were 

his doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Csesar he, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis? did he die. 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye 
been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a 



LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
She-wolf ! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest : — motlier of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild 

teat. 
Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
And thy limbs black with Mghtning — dost thou 

yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 

forget ? 

LXXXIX. 
Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are 

dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conquer' d, and the same 

course steer'd. 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish' d by himself, to his own slaves a 

slave — t 

XC. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Cajsar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The fiaiUies of a heart so soft, yet bold ; 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 



XCI. 
And came — and saw — and conquer' d . But the 

man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to 

flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the GalHc van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity. 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what: can he avouch — or answer what he 

claim' d ? 

XCIL 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fbc'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : for this the conqueror 

rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they havie 

flow'd, 
A universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, 

God! 

XCHL 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 

Life short, and truth a gem which loves the 

deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest 

scale ; 
Opinion and omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too 

bright. 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 

too much light. 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race oi' inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and, rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the sarae 
tree. 

XCV. 
I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen, — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd. 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the 

proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the 

throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had 

done. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



217 



XCVI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 
shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To freedom's cause, in every age and clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips hfe's tree, and dooms man's worst — 
his second fall. 

xcvm. 

Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the 

wind : 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and 

dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little 

worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days. 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone. 
And Vv'ith two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'er- 

thrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ?— A woman's 
grave. 

C. 
But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived— how loved — how died she ? Was 

she not 
So honour'd — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CL 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have been, 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
28 



Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the 
affections are. 

cn. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh' d upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet 

shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hespeiiis of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like 
red. 

cin. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome But whither would conjecture 

stray ? 
Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or 

pride ! 

CIV. 
I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind : 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating v/reck which ruin leaves 
behind ; 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the 

rocks, ■ 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I 

steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save 

what is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and 
bright, 



218 



LORD BYRON, 



And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 
mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 

strown 
In fragments, c-hoked-up vaults, and frescos 

steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd. 
Deeming it midnight :— temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can; for all that learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are 

walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty 

falls. 

CVIII. 
There is the moral of all human tales ; 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First freedom, and then glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And history, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here. 
Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 

Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask Away 

with words ! draw near. 



CIX. 

-despise — laugh, 



weep, — for 



Admire, exult- 
here 

There is such matter for all feeling : — man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span. 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of glory's gewgaws shining in the van. 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
Where are its golden roofs? where those who 
dared to build ? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus, or Trajan's? No — 'tis that of tim.e: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 
sublime, 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth 

reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd. 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 

adore. 



CXII. 
Where is the rock of triumph, (he high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the 

steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race. 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes : and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood j 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd; 
But long before had freedom's face been veil'd, 
And anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
— Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee. 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree 
Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too 
brief. 

CXV. 

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 

wrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must the deUcate waters 

sleep, 
Prison'd in marble ; bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and 
ivy creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



219 



The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills | 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd 
by its skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all-heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the 

greeting 
Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine 

art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed 
which cloys ? 

cxx. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, I 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, I 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the ' 

plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit, forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh love 1 no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch' d — wea- 
ried — wrung — and riven. 

cxxn. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 

seized ? 
In him alone. Can nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we 

dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men — 
The unreach'd paradise of our despair, 



Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
again '( 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the 

cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the 

mind's 
Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sovm 

winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the .prize, — wealthiest when 

most undone. 

CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the 

thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at 

first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And death the sable smoke where vanishes the 

flame. 

CXXV. 

Few — none — find what they love or could have 

loved. 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 

Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong: 
And circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns hope to dust — the dust we all 
have trod. 

OXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 

The harmony of things, — this hard decree, , 

This uiieradicable taint of sin, 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree. 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches 

be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men 

like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage— all the woes we 

see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which fiirob 

through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever 

new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall S'till be mine; 



220 



LORD BYRON 



Though from our birih ihe faculty divine 

Is chain'd and tortur'd — cabin'd, cribb'd, con- 
fined, 

And bred in darkness lest the truth should 
shine 

Too brightly on the -unprepared mmd, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch 
the bhnd. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Cohseum stands ; the moon-beams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to 

illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of 

heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 

power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its 

dower. 

CXXX. 
Oh time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err. 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses, though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee 
a gift : 

CXXXI. 
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a 

shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not : but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have 

worn 
This iron in my soul in vain— shall they not 

mourn ? 

CXXXII. 
And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage 

long— 
Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, 



And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — ^just, 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm , I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart? Awake! thou 
shall, and must. 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, bad it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the grovmd ; 
To thee I do devote it — f/i024 shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and 

found, 

Which if I have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou ahalt yet 

awake. 

GXXXIV. 
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer' d : let him speak 
Who hath beheld dechne upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse. 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my 
curse ! 

cxxxv. 

That curse shall be forgiveness — Have I not- 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Hea 

ven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffer' d things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart 

riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied 

away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

« 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy , 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its .speechless obloquy 

- ' CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain, 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 



CHiLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



231 



CXXXVIII. 
The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 

power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st ill the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been. 
And grow upon the spot, all -seeing but unseen. 

C XXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter' d by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but 

because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or hsted spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 
I see before me the gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop' d head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash", fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
wretch who won. 

CXLL 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were vnth his heart, and that was far away; 
He reck'd not of the fife he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman hohday — 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire. 
And unaveng'd ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where murder breathed her bloody 

steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the 

ways, /^ 

And roar' d or murmur'd hke a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or 

praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint 

rays 
Or the arena void — seats crush' d — walls bow'd; 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 

strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 



Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, 
have reft away. 

CXLIV. 
Bift when the rising moon begins to chmb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of 

time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Ceesar's head ; 
When the hght shines serene, but doth not 

glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye 

tread. 

CXLV. 

" While stands the CoUseum, Rome shall 

stand ; 
When falls the Cohseum, Rome shall fall ; 
And when Rome falls — the world." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er tliis mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, 
The world, the same wide den — of thieves, or 

what ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, subhme — 
Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest hy time ; 
Looking tranquilUty, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man 

plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious 

dome! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ; 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour' d forms, whose busts 
around them close. 

CXLVIII. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear hght 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again \ 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight- 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair. 
Fresh as a nursing-mother, in whose vein 



222 



LORD BYRON. 



The blood is nectar: — ^but what cloth she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and 
bare! 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart, and from the heart we 

took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of hps that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain 
was Eve's. 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire, 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No : he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 

higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 

holds no such tide. 

CLI. 
The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds: — Oh, holiest 

nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLH. 
Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 
Colossal copyist of deformity. 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and, for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes raise this dome : How 

smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such 
a birth. 

CLni. 

But no! the dome — the vast and wondrous 

dome, 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyasna and the jackal in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have sur- 

vey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 

pray'd; 



CLIV. 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are 
aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 
Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not, 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
Has grown colossal, and cati only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 

Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth 
rise, 

Deceived by its gigantic elegance; 

Vastness which grows — ^but grows to harmo- 
nize — 

All musical in its immensities : 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where 
flame 

The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which 
vies 

In air with earth's chief structures, though their 
frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds 
must claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must 

break. 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

GLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling inost intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
Defies at first our nature's httleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlighten' d ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



223 



Of art and ils great masters, who could raise 
What former time, Hor skill, nor thought could 

plan ; 
The fountain of subhmity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of 

man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions 

can. 



CLX. 
Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending : — vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench ; the long-envenom'd 

chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on 
gasp. 

CLXL 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
The God of life, and poesy, and hght — 
The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — 'the arrow 

bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might. 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXIL 
But in his delicate form — a dream of love. 
Shaped by some solitary n5»mph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind vnth in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood. 
Star-like, around, until they gather' d to a god! 

CLxm. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with 
which 'twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — ^if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let them 
pass — 
His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, 



CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and 

all 
That we inherit, in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms ; and 

the cloud 

Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd. 
Till glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow' d 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the 

gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the 

same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose 

sweat was gore. 

CLXVII. 
Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rend- 
ing ground. 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head dis- 
crown' d, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no 
relief 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with ihee 

fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to 

cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 

O thou that wert so happy, so adored I 

Those who weep not for kings shall weep tor 

thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to 

hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead 



224 



LORD BYRON. 



CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 

\ Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd daughter of the isles is laid, 
The love of millions I How did we intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise 
seem'd 

Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 'twas but a me- 
teor beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange 

fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 

flung 
Against their bHnd omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or 

late,— 

CLXXII, 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear : 
From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 

opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love 

thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glossy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the 
snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And, near, Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
" Arms and the man," whose re-ascending 

star 
Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
TuUy reposed from Rome ; — and where yon 

bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight. 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's 

delight. 



CLXXV. 
But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when 

we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we foUow'd on till the dark Euxine 
roU'd 

CLXXVL 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some 

tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden' d by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII. 
Oh ! that the desert were my dweUing-place, 
With one fair spirit for my minister. 
That I might ail forget the human race. 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye elements ! — in whose ennobhng stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our 
lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbhng groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and un- 
known. 

CLXXX. 
His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 



MAN FRED. 



325 



And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him 
lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 

they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roU'st now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and su- 
blime — 
The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton' d with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do he p. 

CLXXXV. 

My task is done — my song Saf^, e'^asod- r/iy 

theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is 6t 
The spell should break of this protracted 

dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and 

lov/. 

29 



CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath 
been — 

A sound which makes us linger, — yet — ^fare- 
well ! 

Ye I who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 

Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 

A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 

A single recollection, not in vain 

He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 

Farewell I with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with you the moral of his 
strain. 



MANFRED; 
A DRAMATIC POEM, 



" There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Manfred. Witch of the Al,p3. 

Chamois Hunter. Arimanes. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. Nemesis. 

Manuel. The Destihies. 

Herman. Spirits, etc. 



The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Aipa 
— partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
Mountains. 



ACT I. 
SCENE I. 
A Gothic Gallery.— Time, Midnight. 
Manfred {alone.) 
The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
B'jt a continuance of enduring thought, 
V/hich then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within : and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise : 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the mosl 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The tree of knowledge is not that of hfe . 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not : I have done men good. 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me- 



226 



LORD BYRON. 



But this avail'd not : good or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands. 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or 

wishes, 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear i 

[A pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of 

him 
Who is undying, — rise ! appear ! — Appear ! 

[A pause. 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong cui'se which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around 

me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gal- 
lery; it is stationary; and a voice is heard 
singing."] 

FIKST SPIKIT. 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twiUght builds. 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermihon, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden. 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd. 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 

Mont-Blanc is the monarch of mountains, 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced. 

The avalanche in liis hand; 
But ere it fall, the thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
T am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst thout 



Voice of the Third Spirit. 

In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells; 
O'er my calm hall of coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boihngly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth. 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth : 
I have quitted my birth-place, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

FIFTH SPIRIT. 

I'm the rider of the wind. 

The stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 

SIXTH SPIRIT. 

My dweUing is the shadow of the night. 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light f 

SEVENTH SPIRIT. 

The star which rules thy destiny. 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air; 
Its course was free and regular. 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse. 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force. 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high. 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
Thou, worm ! whom I obey and scorn- 
Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend. 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend, 
And partly with a thing like thee — 
What wouldst thou, child of clay, with me ? 



MANFRED, 



227 



THE SEVEN SPIRITS. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy 
star, 
Are at thy beck and bidding, child of clay ! 
Before thee, at thy quest, their spirits are — 
What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — 
say? 

MANFKED. 

Forgetfiilness 

FIRST SPIRIT. 

Of what — of whom — and why ? 

MANFRED. 

Of that which is within me ; read it there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 



We can but give thee that which we possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators — each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

MANFRED. 

Oblivion, self-oblivion — 
Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 



It is not in our essence, in our skill; 
But — thou may'st die. 

MANFRED. 

Will death bestow it on me ? 



We are immortal, and do not forget : 

We are eternal ; and to us the past 

Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 

MANFRED. 

Ye mock me — ^but the power which brought ye 

here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my 

will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in 

clay ! 
Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

SPIRIT. 

We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

MANFRED. 

Why say ye so ? 



If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 



I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain, 
Ye cannot, or ye will nor. aid me. 



SPIRIT. 



Say; 

What we possess we ofl'er ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
days — 



Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — ^begone ! 

SPIRIT. 

Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee 

service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 



No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part— 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 



We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — ^in that we will appear. 

MANFRED. 

I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 

seventh' SPIRIT. 

{Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female 
figure.) 

Behold ! 

MANFRED. 

Oh God 1 if it be thus, and thou 

Art not a madness and a mockery, 

I yet might be most happy.— I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 
[Manfred falh senseless. 
(A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 
When the moon is on the wave, 

And the gloi^worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave. 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine. 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
There are shades which will not vanish, 
There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 
By a power to thee unknown. 
Thou canst never be alone ; 
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 



22£ 



LORD BYRON. 



And for ever shalt thou dwell 
In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head ; 
Thou shalt marvel I am not. 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
And a spirit of the air 
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
In the wind there is a voice 
Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
And to thee shall Night deny 
All the quiet of her sky ; 
And the day shall have a sun, 
Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring; 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest hai;m ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile. 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, — 

By that shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art. 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper hell 1 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ■; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo I the spell now works around thee. 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



SCENE II. 

The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Ti7ne, Morning. 
— Manfred alone upon the cliffs. 

MANFRED. 

The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on super-human aid, 
Tt hath no power upon the past, and for 



The future, till the piist l.e gulf 'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My mother earth ! 
And thou, fresh breaking day, and you, /e 

mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, ^ 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shinest not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above. 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride. 
Contending with low wants and lofty will 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The shepherd' s pipe i?i the distatice is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I 

were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment—born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hxinter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Even so. 
This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance. — 
I will approach him nearer. 



:anfred, 



229 



MANFRED {not ■perceiving the other.) 
To be thus 
Gray-haired with anguish, hke these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feehng to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by 

years ; 
And hours — ail tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush 

me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass. 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

MANFRED. 

The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap' d with the damn' d like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

MANFRED. 

Mountains have fallen, 
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters, 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus. 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenburg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Friend! have a care. 
Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink! 

MANFRED {not hearing Mm.) 
Such would have been for me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall 

be— 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening hea- 
vens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these 
atoms ! 

[As Manfred is in act to spring from the 
cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and re- 
tains him with a sudden grasp.] 



Hold, madman ! — though aweary ol my life. 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood.— 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

MANFRED. 

I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
Spinning around me — I grow blind. — What art 
thou? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

I'll answer that anon. — Away with me — 

The clouds grow thicker — there — now lean on 

me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and 

chng 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely 

done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, 
the scene closes.l 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 
A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go forth: 
Thy mind and body are ahke unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

MANFRED. 

It imports not : I do know 
My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls. 
Carousing with the vassals ; hut the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 



No matter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Well, sir, pardon me the question. 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our. glaciers, now 
Let it do this for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 



230 



LORD BYRON 



Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander from 
thee. 



I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
■And loved each other as we should not love. 
And this was shed: but still it rises up, 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from 

heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Man of strange words, and some half-maddening 

sin. 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort 

yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

MANFRED. 

Patience, and patience ! Hence — that word was 

made 
For brutes of burthen, nor for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 
I am not of thine order. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Thanks to Heaven ! 
I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 



Do I not bear it ?- 



MANFRED. 

-Look on me — I live. 



CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

MANFRED. 

I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years. 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number ; ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

MANFRED. 

Think' St thou existence doth depend on time ? 
It doth : but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable. 
Endless, and all aUke as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. 

MANFRED. 

I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 



CHAiWiJlb HTJNTEK. 

What is it 
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? 

MANFRED. 

Myself and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 

Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 

And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 

Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 

Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils 

By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 

Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 

With cross and garland over its green turf, 

And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph : 

Tills do I see — and then I look within — 

It matters not — -my soul was scorch'd already ! 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine? 

MANFRED. 

No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In Ufe what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

And with this— 
This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not ao. 
Can one of gentle thoughts >,have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

MANFRED. 

Oh ! no, no, no ! 
My injuries came down on those who loved me— ^^ 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my ju.st defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Heaven give thee res* , 
And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

MANFRED. 

I need them not, 
But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell I Here's gold, and thanks for 

thee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril 's past : — 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

[Exit Manfred. 



SCENE II. 
A lovjer Volley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
Enter Manfred. 
It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death. 



MANFRED. 



231 



As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 

But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 

I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 

And with the spirit of the place divide 

The homage of these waters. — 1 will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into the 
fdlmof his hand o,nd flings it into the air, 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause, 
the Witch of the Alps rises beneath the 
arch of the sunbeam, of the torrent. 



Beautiful spirit ! with thy hair of light, 

And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 

The'charmsofearth's least-mortal daughters grow 

To an unearthly stature, in an essence 

Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 

Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 

The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 

Beautiful spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 

Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 

Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that he 

Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 



Son of earth ! 
I know thee, and the powers which give thee 

power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — whatwouldst thou with me ? 



To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden' d me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 



What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 



A boon ; 
But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 

WITCH. 

I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

MANFRED. 

Well, though it torture rne, 'tis but the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth up- 
wards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes, 



The tldrst of their ambition was not mine, 

The ami of iheir existence was not mine ; 

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 

Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 

I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 

Nor 'midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but sHght communion : but instead, 
My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
The difRcult air of the iced mountain's top, 
Where the birds dare build, nor insect's wing 
Fht o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon, 
The stars and their developement ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 
While autumn winds were at their evening song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
Hating to be so, — cross' d me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded back to them. 
And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up 

dust. 
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 
And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air, 
And spirits that do compass air and earth. 
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
Mine eyes familiar with eternity, 
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
He who from out their fountain dweUings raised 
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, 
As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
Of this most bright intelligence, until 

WITCH. 

Proceed. 

MANFRED. 

Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

WITCH. 

Spare not thyself — proceed 

MANFRED. 

She was like me in Uneaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said, were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderingH, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 



233 



LORD BYRON 



To comprehend the universe : nor these 

Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 

Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 

And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 

Humility — and that I never had. 

Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own-^ 

I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

WITCH. 

With thy hand? 

MANFRED. 

Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her 

heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

WITCH. 

And for this — 
A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st 

back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 



Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour — 

But words are breath — look on me in my sleep. 

Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 

My solitude is solitude no more, 

But peopled with the Furies. — I have gnash'd 

My teeth in darkness till returning morn. 

Then curs'd myself till sunset; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 

And fatal things passed harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep. 

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 

I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences. 

My long-pursued and super-human art. 

Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 

And live — and live for ever. 



That I can aid thee. 



It may be 



MANFEED. 

To do this thy power 
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — ^in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

WITCH. 

That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

MANFRED. 

I will not swear. — Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 



Whose presence I coinmand, and be the slave 
Of those who served me^ — ^Neverl 

WITCH. 

Is this all ? 
Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

MANFRED. 

I have said it. 

WITCH. 

Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 

MANFRED. 

Retire ! 
[The Witch disappearg. 

MANFRED {olone.) 

We are the fools of time and terror: days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
And ask them what it is we dread to be ; 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer' d to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in PhigaUa roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart ; 
But I can act even what I most abhor, 
And champion human fears. — The night ap' 
preaches. {Exit, 



SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 

And here on snov/s, where never human foot 



MANFRED. 



233 



Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 

And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea. 

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 

The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 

Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image ; 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the 

clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 

A voice icitlwiol, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver' d his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his 

wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 

First Destiny, answering. 
The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly. 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The hving shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish. 
And evil and dread. 

Envelop a nation — 
The blest are the dead. 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation. — 
This work of a night, 
This wreck of a realm— this deed of my doing— 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 
The Three. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves ; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis ? 
30 



SECOND DESTINY. 

At some great work ; 
But what I know not, for my hands were full. 

THIRD DESTINY. 

Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

FIRST destiny. 

Say, where hast thou been ? 
My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

NEMESIS. 

I was detain' d repairing shatter' d thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves. 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstaid the hour — mount we our 
clouds ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his throne, 
a Globe of Fire, sitrrouiided by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our master ! — Prince of earth and air ! — 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth— and a tempest shakes the sea; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the World asun- 
der. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackhng skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him war offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him death pays his tribute ; life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 

His power increaseth — both my sisters did 

His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

SECOND DESTINY. 

Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow i 

The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

THIRD DESTINY. 

Glory to Arimanes ! — we await his nod ! 

NEMESIS. 

Sovereign of sovereigns ! we are thine. 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 



234 



LORD BYRON. 



And most things wholly so ! still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — I'hy late commands 
Have been fulfilled to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A SPIRIT. 

What is here ? 
A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

I do know the man — 
A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

Bow down and worship, slave ! — 

What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 

ALL THE SPIRITS. 

Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 



MANFRED. 



And yet ye see I kneel not. 



I know it ; 



FOURTH SPIRIT. 

'Twill be taught thee. 

MANFRED. 

' Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earth, 

On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 

And strew' d my head with ashes ; I have known 

The fulness of humihation, for 

I dimk before my vain despair, and knelt 

To my own desolation. 

FIFTH SPIRIT. 

Dost thou dare 
Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 

MANFRED. 

Bid him bow down to that which is above him, — 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

THE SPIRITS. 

Crush the worm I 
Tear him in pieces ! — 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Hence ! Avaunt ! he's mine, 
Prince of the, powers invisible ! this man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote : his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge and his power and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been 

such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; bis aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taiighr hm what we know — 
That knowledge is not hr.ppiness, and science 



But an exchange of ignorance for that 

Which is another kind of ignorance. 

This is not all — the passions, attributes 

Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor 

being. 
Nor breath, from the worm upwards, is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
No other spirit in this region hath 
A soul hke his — or power upon his soul. 

NEMESIS. 

What doth he here then ? 

FIRST DESTINY. 

Let him answer that. 



Ye know what I have known ; and without power 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 



What wouldst thou ? 

MANFRED. 

Thou canst not reply to me. 
Call up the dead — my question is for them. 



Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 



ARIMANES. 



Yea. 



Whom wouldst thou 



Uncharnel ? 



Astarte. 



MANFRED. 

One without a tomb — call up 



Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return' d to the earth,— 

Re-appear to the day '. 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — appear ! — appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 

{The phantom of Astarte rises and 
stands in the midst. 

MANFRED. 

Can this be death? there's bloom upon her 

cheek ! 

But now I see it is no living hue. 
But a strange hectic — hke the unnatural red 



MANFRED 



236 



Which Autumn plants upon the perish' d leaf. 
It is the same ! Oli God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or tondemn me. 



By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall' d thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

MANFRED. 

She is silent, 
And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

NEMESIS. 

My power extends no further. Prince of air, 
It rests with thee alone — command her speech. 

AEIMANES. 

Spirit ! obey this sceptre ! 



Silent still ! 
She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are bafHed also. 



Hear me, hear me— 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 

I have so much endured — so much endure — 

I.ook on me ! the grave hath not changed thee 

more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou Jovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadhest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loathest me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have called on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd 

boughs. 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the 

caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly -echoed name, 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd 

me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me I I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander' d o'er the earth 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me I though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ; 



PHANTOM OF ASTARTE. 

Manfred! 

MANFRED. 

Say on, say on— 
I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred ! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Yet one word more — am I forgiven f 

PHANTOM. 

Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Say, shall we meet again ? 



Farewell ! 



MANFRED. 

One word for mercy ! say, thou lovest me. 



Manfred ! 



PHANTOM. 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappear f. 

NEMESIS. 

She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A SPIRIT. 

He is convulsed. — 'This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortahty. 

ANOTHER SPIRIT. 

Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

NEMESIS. 

Hast thou further question 
Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 



None. 



NEMESIS. 

Then for a time farewell. 



MANFRED. 

We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
(Scene closes.) 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

MANFRED. 

What is the hour ? 



236 



LORD BYR 



It wants but one till sunset, 
And promises a lovely twilight. 



Say, 
Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 



All, my lord, are ready ; 
Here is the key and casket. 



Thou may' St retire. 



MANFRED. 

It is well 



[Exit Herman. 



MANFRED (aloue.) 

There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest. 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found. 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once: 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

He- enter Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

ABBOT. 

Peace be with Count Manfred ! 



Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honours ihem, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 



Would it were so, Count !- 
But I would fain confer with thee alone. 



Herman, retire, 
guest ? 



MANFRED. 

What would my reverend 



my 



Thus, without prelude : — 'Age and zeal, 

office. 

And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 



Proceed, — I listen. 



'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

MANFRED. 

And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

ABBOT. 

My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 



Take it. 



I come to save, and not destroy — 
I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
Heaven. 



I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 



My son ! I did not speak of punishment. 

But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 

The choice of such remains — and for the last, 

Our institutions and our strong belief 

Have given me power to smooth the path from 

sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to Heaven — " Vengeance is mine alone!" 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 



Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 

No charm in prayer — nor purifying form 

Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 

Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 

The innate tortures of that deep despair 

Which is remorse without the fear of hell. 

But all in all sufficient to itself 

Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 

From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 

Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 

Upon itself; there is no future pang 

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 

He deals on his own soul. 



All this is well ; 
For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 



MANFRED. 



237 



With calm assurance fo that blessed place. 

Which all who seek may win, whatever be 

Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 

And the commencement of atonement is 

The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 

And all our church can teach thee shall be 

taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 



When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is loo late — is this fidelity?" 



And what of this ? 



"It is too late !' 



MANFBED. 

I answer wath the Roman — 



It never can be so, 
To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no 

hope ? 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth., 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning 

men. 

BIANFKED. 

Ay — father '. I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain cataract. 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds, raining from the reascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past. 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

ABBOT. 

And wherefore so ? 

MANFRED. 

I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — 

and sue 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
The mass are : I disdain' d to mingle v/ith 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The hon is alone, and so am I. 

ABBOT. 

And why not live and act with other men? 



Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 



But find a desolation : — like ihe wind, 
The red-hot breath of 'he most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

ABBOT. 

Alas! 
I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my caUing ; yet so young, 
I still would 

MANFRED. 

Look on me ! there is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study^ 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness- 
Some of disease — and some insanity — 
And some of wither'd or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names, 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things, 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
One were enough : then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or, having been, that I am still on earth. 

ABBOT. 

Yet, hear me still 

MANFRED. 

Old man ! I do respect 
Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain: 
Think me not churUsh ; I would spare thyself. 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — ^farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

ABBOT. 

This should have been a noble creature : he 

Hath all the energy which would have made 

A goodly frame of glorious elements, 

Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is. 

It is an awful chaos — hght and darkness — 

And mind and dust — and passions and pure 

thoughts, 
Mix'd and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive: he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For such are worth redemption : and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him— but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot, 



SCENE II. 
Another Chamber. 

Manfred and Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset 
He sinks behind the mountain. 



938 



LORD BYRON, 



Doth he so ? 
I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the window of the Hall. 
Glorious orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal' d ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the 

hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material god ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star 
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far. 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 



SCENE III. 

The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance — A Terrace before a Tamer. — Time, 
Twilight. 

Hehman, Manuel, and other dependants of 

Manfred. 



'Tis strange enough : night after night, for years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been oft-times : but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. 



'Twere dangerous; 
Content thyself vdth what thou know'st already. 

HERMAN. 

Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 

And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within 

the castle — 
How many years is 't ? 

MANUEL. 

Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 



There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? 



I speak not 
Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free,- 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and sohtude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their dehghts. 



Beshrew the hour, 
But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

MANUEL. 

These walls 
Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have 

seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

HERMAN. 

Come, be friendly; 
Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same towei. 



That was a night indeed ; I do remember 
'Twas twilight as it may be now, and such 
Another evening : — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same : the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,— 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here f 

Enter the Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

Where is your master ? 

HERMAN. 

Yonder, in the tower 

abbot. 
I must speak with him. 



'Tis impossible; 
He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 



Upon myself I take 
The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 



MANFRED. 



339 



HERMAN. 

Thou hast seen him once 



This eve already. 

ABBOT. 

Herman ! I command thee, 
Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

HERMAN. 

We dare not. 

ABBOT. 

Then it seems I must be herald 
Of my own purpose. 

MANUEL. 

Reverend father, stop — 
I pray you pause. 

ABBOT. 

Why so ? 

KANUEL. 

But step this way, 
And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred, alone. 

MANFRED. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall 
'Midst the chief reHcs of almighty Rome ; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Caesar's palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bow-shot — where the Caesars dwelt. 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd battle- 
ments. 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
And thou did'st shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
As 'twere anew, tne gaps of centuries : 



Leaving that beautiful which siill was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still 

rule 
Our spirit from their urns. — 

' Twas such a night * 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

My good lord ! 
I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander' d; 
But is not yet all lost. 



Thou know'st me not : 
My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 

ABBOT. 

Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 



Not I : 



I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 



ABBOT. 

What dost mean ? 



Look there ; 



What dost thou see ? 



ABBOT. 

Nothing. 

MANFRED. 

Look there, I say. 
And stedfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest? 

ABBOT. 

That which should shake me, — ^but I fear it not— 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
Thyself and me— but I do fear him not. 

MANFRED. 

Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee— but 
His sight may shock thine old Umbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

ABBOT. 

And I reply — 
Never — till I have battled with this fiend — 
What doth he here ? 



240 



LORD BYRON. 



Why — ay — what doth he here ? 
I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 



Alas! lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake. 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortaUty of hell — 
A vaunt ! 

MANFRED. 

Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

SPIRIT. 

Come! 

ABBOT 

What art thou, unknown being? answer? — 
speak i 

SPIRIT. 

The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 

MANFRED. 

I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee 
here? 

SPIRIT. 

Thou'lt know anon- — Gome ! come ! 

MANFRED. 

I have commanded 
Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 

SPIRIT. 

Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 



I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

SPIRIT. 

Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 

[Other Spirits rise up. 



Avaunt ! ye evil ones 1 — A vaunt ! I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 



Old man! 
We know ourselves, our mission, and thine 

order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away '. 



I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 



To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

SPIRIT. 

Reluctant mortal! 
Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 



Thou false fiend, thou liest I 
My life is in its last hour, — thai I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels : my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and 

skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side. 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 



Have made thee- 



SPIRIT. 

But thy many crimes 



What are they to such as thee 1 
Must crimes be punish' d but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell '. 
Thou hast no power upon me, tJiat I feel .; 
Thou never shalt posess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — ^its innate sense. 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst no* 

tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

[The Demons disappear. 



Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throa* 
The accents rattle. — Give thy prayers to Hea- 
ven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

MANFRED. 

'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well- 
Give me thy hand. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



241 



Cold — 'cold — even to the heart — 
But yet one prayer — alas '. how fares it with 
thee ?— 

MANFRED. 

Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

ABBOT. 

He'agone — his soul hath ta'enits earth less flight — 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

Campbell. 



DEDICATION. 

Lady I if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where I was born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great poet-sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 

Thotj art the cause ; and, howsoe'er I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, 

Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms dis- 
play'd. 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
Bavenna, June 21, 1819 



CANTO I. 

OxcB more in man's fredlviorld ! which I had left 
So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal. 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angehc race ; 
'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best. 
Mysterious, three, sole infinite, great God! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet hmbs the sod 

So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love 30 ineffable, and so alone, 
31 



That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, Uke the arkless 
dove, 
Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 
Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my Hfe, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 
Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With the world's war, and years, and banish- 
ment. 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 
For mine is not a nature to be bent 
By tyrannous faction, and the brawhng crowd ; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been 
spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 

But the sun, tho' not overcast, must set, 
And the night cometh; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 

The world hath left me, what it found me- — 

pure. 
And if I have not gather' d yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim. 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 

And make men's fickle breath the wind tiiat blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free ; 
Oh Florence I Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over: "but thou wouldst not;" as the 

bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather' d thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce. 
Against the breast that cherish' d thee was 
stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who /or that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire bij her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom. 
No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 



242 



LORD BYRON 



And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 
Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 

The breast which would have bled for her, the 
heart 

That beat, the mind that was temptation- 
proof, 
The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each 
part 

Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 

For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art 
Pass his destruction even into a law. 
These things are not made for forgetfulness — 

Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw 
The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 

Of such endurance too prolong'd, to make 

My pardon greater, her injustice less, 
Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 

I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 

My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 
Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 

And still IS hallowed by thy dust's return, 

Which would protect the murderess like a 
shrine. 
And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 

Though, like old Marius from Minturnse's 
marsh 

And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn 
At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 

And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 

Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch 
My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go! 

Such are the last infirmities of those 

Who long have sufl^er'd more than mortal woe, 
And yet, being mortal still, have no repose 

But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 

Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking 
glows 
With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 

When we shall mount again, and they that trod 

Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 
O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks — Great 
God! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I 
yield 

My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
Will fall on those who smote me, — be my 
shield! 

As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 

In turbulent ciiies, and the tented field — 
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 

For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee ! 

Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign. 
Even in that glorious vision, which to see 

And live was never granted until now, 

And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things comes 
back! 

Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 

Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 

Of half a century bloody and black. 
And the frail few years I may yet expect 

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear; 

For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 
On the lone rock of desolate despair 

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 



Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my 
wail? 

I am not of this people, nor this age. 

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
Which shall preserve these times, when not a 
page 

Of their perturbed annals could attract 

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 
Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the 
doom 

Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 

Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 

Then future thousands crowd around their 
tomb. 
And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 

The name of him — who now is but a name. 

And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone 
Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 

And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 

Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 
My mind down from its own infinity — 

To live in narrow ways with httle men, 

A common sight to every common eye, 
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 

Ripp'd from all kindred, firom all home, all 
things 

That make communion sweet, and soften 
pain — 
To feel me in the solitude of kings, 

Without the power that makes them bear a 
crown — 

To envy every dove his nest and wings 
Which waft him where the Appenine looks down 

On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 

Within my all-inexorable town, 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 

Their mother, the cold partner who hath 
brought 

Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 

A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, — 
They made an exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO II. 



The spirit of the fervent days of old, 
When words were things that came to pass, 

and thought 
Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 

Their children's children's doom already brought j 
Forth from the abyss of lime which is to be. 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortahty ; 

What the great seers of Israel wore within. 
That spirit was on them, and is on me, 

And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed, 
This voice from out the wilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my m,eed. 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to 
bleed. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



243 



Italia? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 

In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 
We can have but one country, and even yet 

Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy 
breast, 

My soul within thy language, which once set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide west ; 

But I will make another tongue arise 

As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs. 

Shall find ahke such sounds for every theme 

That every word, as briUiant as thy skies, 
Shall reahze a poet's proudest dream. 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; 

So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism when coinpared with 
thine. 

This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 

Woe ! woe ! the veil of coming centuries 

Is rent, — a thousand years, which yet supine 
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 

Heaving in dark and sullen undulation. 

Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their 
station. 

The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb. 

The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 
But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 

The elements await but for the word, 

" Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a 
tomb I 
Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, 

Thou, Italy ! so fair that paradise. 

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored; 
Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 

Thou, Italy ! whose ever-golden fields, 

Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
For the world's granary ; thou whose sky heaven 
gilds 

With brighter stars, and robes with deeper 
blue ; 

Thou, in whose pleasant places summer builds 
Her palace, in whose cradle empire grew, 

And form'd the eternal city's ornaments 

From spoils of kings whom freemen over- 
threw ; 
Birth-place of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 

Where earthly first, then heavenly ^lory made 

Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy 
paints. 
And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colours, when the eye — from the 
Alp 

Of horrid show, and rock and shaggy shade 
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 

Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 

And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 
To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 

The more approach'd, and dearest were they 
free, 
Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 

The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, 
and Hun, 

Are yet to come, — and on the Imperial hill 



Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new. 
Throned on the Palatine, while, lost and won, 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their god, have shrieking fled, and 
ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the 

gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and 
set ; 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor prince's banner met, 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy 
fate. 

Oh l Rome, the spoiler of the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance. 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks! floods, whelm them, 
and for ever ! 

Why sleep the idle avalanches so. 
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
Over Cambyscs' host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 
Roll'd o'er Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet 
lie 

The dead whose tomb oblivion never knew, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylffi ? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 

Of an invader ? is it they, or ye 
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage 
free? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so : but alone she will not war. 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth. 
In a soil where the mothers bring forth men ! 
Not so with those whose souls are httle worth ; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts 
to bring 



LORD BYRON. 



Against oppression; but how vain the toil, 
While still division sows the seed of woe 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 

Oh '. my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the avenger stops, 
And doubt and discord step 'twixt thine and 

thee, 
And join their strength to that which with thee 
copes : 

What IS there wanting then to set thee free. 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite ! 



CANTO III. 



From out the mass of never-dying ill. 
The plague, the prince, the stranger, and the 

sword. 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye ; the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
There where the farthest suns and stars have 
birth. 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart (he sound of archangelic songs, 
And Italy, the mariyr'd nation's gore, 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore ; 
Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind. 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though 'the vain may 
acofF 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough, 

To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 

Think not that I would look on them and live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take, 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom, 
A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy 

night. 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 

Leans sculptured beauty, which death cannot 
blight ; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To gi-i/e thee honour and the earth delight; 



Thy soil shall slill be pregnant with the wise. 
The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the 

brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 

Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave, 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their 

name ; 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same f 

Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
The being — and even yet he may be bom — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free. 

And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn. 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, 
Such as all they must breathe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall 
listen ; 

Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
And make it broader; the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them 
glow 

And raise their notes as natural and high ; 
Tuneful shall be their numbers : they shall 

sing 
Many of love, and some of liberty; 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
And look in the sim's face with eagle's gaze 
All free and fearless as the feathered king. 

But fly more near the earth : how many a phrase 
Sublime shall lavish' d be on some small prince 
In all the prodigality of praise ! 

And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a 
booty, 

And the first day which sees the chain enthral 
A captive sees his half of manhood gone — 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 

His spirit ; thus the bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit the sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong / 

Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, i 

Or force or forge fit argument of song ! 
Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's I 

trebles. 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly 
rebels. 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 

In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through 
his strain. 
But out of the long file of sonnetteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 

And he, their prince, shall rank among my 
peers, 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



245 



And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 

Shall make an immortality of tears, 
And Italy shall hail him as the chief 

Of poet lovers, and his higher song 

Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
But in a further age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do them 
wrong 
Till they are ashes and repose with me. 

The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 

And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire 

Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought 

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire ; 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught. 

Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 

And art itself seem into nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream. — 

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 

Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high 
harp 

Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 

Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 

And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 

The red-cross banners where the first red 
cross 

Was crimson' d from his veins who died to 
save. 
Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 

Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 

And call captivity a kindness, meant 

To shield him from insanity or shame : 
Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 

To be Christ's laureate — ^they reward him 
well! 

Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 
Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had stnng the factions which I strove to quell; 
But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth and heaven, and who will 
deign 

To embalm with his celestial flattery 
As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 

What will he do to merit such a doom ? 

Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? 

Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 

The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
In penury and pain too many a year, 

And, dying in despondency, bequeath 

To the kind world, which scarce will yield a 
tear, 
A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 

And to their country a redoubled wreath, 
Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 

Through her olympiads two such names, 
thotigh one 

Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 
Of such men's desiiny beneath the sun? 



Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries 
run, 
Their body's self-turn'd soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 
Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the 
rough 
Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it must be. 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 
These birds of paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 
And die, or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair. 
And vulture passions, flying close behind. 
Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
And when at length the winged wanderers 

stoop. 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they 
share 
The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell 
swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to 

bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to 
droop, 
Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have 

been, 
And if my name amongst the number were. 
That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
Were prouder than more dazzling fame un- 

blest ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 
Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 

V/hose splendour from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose 
burning breast 
A temporary torturing flame is wrung. 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 
The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV, 



Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not 
lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they com- 
press'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties hnk'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without the name; 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 



■246 



LORD BYROiN. 



Lies chain'd to his lone rock by tiie sea-shore ! 
So be it ; we can bear. — But thus all they, 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power, 

Which still recoils from its encumbering clay, 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The forms which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may 
bear; 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvas till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below. 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 
Break no commandment, for high heaven is 

there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy which peoples but the air 
With thought and beings of our thought re- 
flected. 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and genius are too oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass, 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
And temples loftier than the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome, its image, while the base expands 

Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair. 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 
And the bold architect unto whoso care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
Whom all arts shall acknov/ledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. 
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 

Over the damn'd before the .Judgment throne, 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown. 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring 
from me, 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress. 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A cedar towering o'er the wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar. 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and 

gaze 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 



All beauty upaii earth, compeU'd to praise, 
Shall feel the power of that wliich they destroy; 
And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot : 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 

But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and 
fee'd. 

Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspires! ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show. 
Least like 1o thee in attributes divine. 
Tread on the universal necks that bow. 

And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of 
shame. 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their destiny be borne aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof. 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my 
roof, 

I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse. 
The hate of injuries, which every year 
Makes greater and accumulates my curse. 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even 

that, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings, 
And demagogues yield to them but in date 

As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things 
Which make men hate themselves and one 

another. 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his 
mother. 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
,The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, 

And the worst despot's far less human ape: 
Florence ! when this lone spirit which so long 
Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, 

To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
Which shut him from the sole small spat of 

earth 
Where, whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 

His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 

And seek to honour whh an empty urn 
The ashes thou shall ne'er attain. — Alas'. 
"What have I done to thee, my people?" 
Stern 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



247 



Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
The limits of man's common malice, for 
All that a citizen could be I was ; 

Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 
And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis 

done : 
I may not overleap the eternal bar 

Built up between us, and will die alone. 
Beholding, with the dark eye of a seer. 
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 

Foretelling them to those who will not hear, 
As in the old time, till the hour be come 
When truth shall strike their eyes through 
many a tear, 

And make them own the prophet in his tomb. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE ; 

Or, carmen SECULARE ET ANNUS 
HAUD MIRABILIS. 



'Impar Congressus AchWli." 



I. 

The "good old times" — all times, when old, are 

good — 
Are gone ; the present may be, if they would ; 
Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will : 
A wider space, a greener field is given 
To those who play their "tricks before high 

Heaven." 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 

n. 

All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad. 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much. 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free. 
As the deep billows of the ^Egean roar 
Betwi.xt the Hellenic and Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave. 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of " dust to dust," but half its tale untold. 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form — 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea. 
O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear. 



He wepi for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death and birth 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er 
Conceived the globe he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

III. 
But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness' d kings, 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of 

late, 
Chain' d to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes 

were thrones ; 
Whose table, earth — whose dice were human 

bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. 
And. as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations 
Now daily squabbhng o'er disputed rations; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things — ' 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues! 
A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, 
Now slave of all could teaze or irritate — 
The paltry jailor and the prying spy, 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 
How low, how little, was this middle state, 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
Hov/ few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
Vain his complaint — my lord presents his bill. 
His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
Vain was his sickness, — never was a crime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain' d his cause. 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's 

applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged 

face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
None stand by his low bed — though even the 

mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes man 

kind, — 

Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign. 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The httle that he was and sought to be '■ 



248 



LORD BYRON. 



What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
He tasted empire's blessings, and its curse ; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape : 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
What though his jailor, duteous to the last, 
Scarce deem'd the coiBn's lead could keep him 

fast, 
Refusing one poor line along the lid 
To date the birth and death of all it hid. 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore : 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 
When Victory's Galhc column shall but rise. 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard Envy still denies. 
But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 
Touch the freed spirit of the fetter' d dust ? 
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists. 
Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
Alike the better- seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 
Of this last consolation, though so scant; 
Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones, 
To rear amid a pyramid of thrones ; 
Or carried onward, in the battle's van, 
To form, hke Gueschn's* dust, her tahsman. 
But be it as it is, the time may come 
His name shall beat the alarm Hke Ziska's drum. 



Oh, Heaven ! of which he was in power a 

feature ; 
Oh, earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
That saw the unfledged eaglet chip his shell I 
Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning 

flights 
Hover the victor of a hundred fights ! 
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds out- 
done ! 
Alas! why pass'dhe too the Rubicon? 
The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
And shook within her pyramids to hear 
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 
While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 
With clashing hosts, who strew' d the barren sand 
To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 



* Guesclin died during tlie siege of a city : it sur- 
rendered, and the keys were brought and laid upon his 
bier, so that the place might appear rendered to his 
ashes. 



; Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall I 
Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederic but in name 
And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell, 
First, and but rose to follow ; ye who dwell 
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 
Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd. 
But left thee as he found thee, still a waste : 
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 
Thy lotted people and extinguish' d name ; 
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear : 
Kosciusko ! on — on — on — the thirst of war 
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar ; 
The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets I 
Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
To see in vain — he saw thee — how ! with spire 
And palace fuel to one common fire. 
To this the soldier lent his kindUng match, 
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 
The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 
Subhmest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame ; 
Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
For gasping tourists, from his hackney 'd height: 
Thou stand'sl alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
To come, in which all empires shall expire. 
Thou other element ! as strong and stern 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth' — their blood flows faster than her 

wines, 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on the polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her oflfspring chill' d — its beams are now forsaken. 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
What shall return? The conqueror's broken car ! 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory. 
Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
Before their sovereign, — sovereign, as before ; 
But there exhausted Fortune quits their field. 
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd 

yield ; 
The Saxon jackal leaves the hon's side 
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 
And backward to the den of his despair 
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair! 
Oh ye ! and each, and all ! oh, France ! who found 
Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



249 



Look'd down o'er trampled Paris, and thou, isle, 

Which see' St Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 

The momentary shelter of his pride. 

Till, woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride; 

Oh, France ! retaken by a single march, 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 

Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 

Which prove how fools may have their fortune too, 

Won, half by blunder, half by treachery ; 

Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailor nigh — 

Hear ! hear ! Prometheus* from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year ; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd ; 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 

The reed of fortune and of thrones the rod. 

Of fame the Moloch or the demi-god ; 

His country's Cassar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought. 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page, 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 

Or drawing firom the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth : 

While Washington's a watch-word, such as ne'er 

Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave, — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 

Who burst the chains of miUions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through. 

And crush' d the rights of Europe and his own 

To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be— the spark's awaken' d — lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore. 
Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 
The infant world redeems her name of "New." 
'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
Where Greece was— No ! she still is Greece once 

more. 
One common cause makes myriads of one breast ! 
Slaves of the east, or Helots of the west ; 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl' d. 
The self-same standard streams o'er either world : 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 

*I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus 
in jEschylus, when he is left alone by his attendants, 
and before the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs. 
32 



The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek ; 
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each Ca- 
cique ; 
Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore. 
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar: 
Through Calpe's strait the roUing tides advance, 
Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, 
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
Break o'er the .^gean, mindful of the day 
Of Salamis — there, there the waves arise. 
Not to be luU'd by tyrant victories. 
Lone, lost, abandon' d in their utmost need 
By Christians unto whom they gave their creed, 
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 
The aid evaded, and the cold delay. 
Prolong' d but in the hope to make a prey; — 
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can 

show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 
Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; 
Better still toil for masters, than av/ait, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
Lotted by thousands as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the czar's regard; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; 
Better succumb even to their own despair, 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

vn. 

But not alone within the hoariest clime, 

Where freedom dates her birth with that of time , 

And not alone where plunged in night, a crowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 

The dawn revives ; renown' d, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again. 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde. 

Demand her fields as hsts to prove the sword ; 

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they 

sprung. 
But these are gone — their faith, iheir swords, their 

sway, 
Yet left more anti-christian foes than they : 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
The inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel. 
While sat the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 



250 



LORD BYRON. 



The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth ; 
The long-degenerate noble ; the debased 
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced 
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm ; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
The foreign wealth that flow'd on every shore, 
Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore; 
The very language, which might vie with Rome's, 
And once was known to nations hke their homes, 
Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo I not in vain 
Revive the cry — "lago! and close Spain!"* 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
The exterminating war ; the desert plain ; 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 
The knife of Arragon,t Toledo's steel ; 
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan; 
The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Ad- 
vance, 
And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, 
France ! 

vm. 

But lo I a congress ! What, that hallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the 

same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise. 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young freedom, summon'd far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But who compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
The councils held to benefit mankind? 
Who now assemble at the holy call ? — 
The bless' d alliance which says three are all! 
An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 
Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 



*" St. lago! and close Spain!" the old Spanish war- 
cry. 

t The Arr.ifronians are peculiarly dexterous in the 
use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in 
former French wars. 



A pious unity ! in purpose one, 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees. 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed: 

But these, more hungry, must have something 

more — 
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
Ah, how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 
Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
And crushing nations with a stupid blow, 
All dully anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice bless' d Verona I since the holy three 
With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;" 
Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 
" Can' Grande" (which I venture to translate) 
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, 
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate ; 
Thy good old man,* whose world was all within 
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: 
Would that the royal guests it girds about 
Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
Ay, shout I inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 
To tell oppression that the world is tame ! 
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage — 
The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
The show is rich in ribbonry and stars — 
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
Clasp thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
For thus much still thy fetter' d hands are firee '. 

X. 
Resplendent sight ! behold the coxcomb czar, 
The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
As eager for a plaudit as a realm. 
And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack vnt, 
And generous spirit when 'tis not frost-bit; 
Now half-dissolving to a liberal thaw. 
But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw ; 
With no objection to true liberty. 
Except that it would make the nations free. 
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace. 
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free 

Greece ! 
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ; 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the south long hid, — 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
And that which Scythia was to him of yore, 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 



* The famous old man of Verona. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



351 



h Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth. 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth : 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine. ''^ 
Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir 

hol"des, 
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are 

pure. 
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago : 
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 
Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun; 
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free ; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 

XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne plus ultTa Ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers, 
And tribune which each orator first clambers. 
Before he finds a voice, and, when 'tis found. 
Hears " the he" echo for his answer round ? 
Our British Commons sometimes daign to hear ; 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot. 
To hsten long and interrupting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When TuUy fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 

XII. 

But Where's the monarch? hath he dined? or 

yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
Have revolutionary pates risen. 
And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 
Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops? 
Or have no movements follow' d traitorous soups? 
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all 's treason in her cooks ! 

Good classic ! is it, canst thou say. 

Desirable to be the " ?" 



Why wouldst thou leave calm 's green 

abode, 
Apician table and Horatian ode. 
To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
And love much rather to be scourged than 

school' d? 
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
For thrones — the table sees thee better placed : 
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 
To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 
A scholar always, now and then a wit, 
And gentle when digestion may permit — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee ! 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
" Arts — arms — and George — 'and glory and the 

isles — 
And happy Britain — wealth and freedom's 

smiles — 
White chffs, that held invasion far aloof- 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the 

world !* 
And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush! not 

yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose pen-knife sht a goose-quill 'tother day — 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm,'— 
(But no, not even for rhyme's sake, name 

reform)." 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near. 
There's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain, perchance, to chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with 

rhyme ; 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit. 
And never, even in that dull house, couldst 

tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more, 
Nay, not so much; — they hate thee, man, 

because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. — 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's 

hollo. 
And, where he leads, the duteous pack will 

follow : 
But not for love mistake their yelUng cry, 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet qiute sectne, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; 

* The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter, (called * " Naso suspendit adunco. "—/Torncc. 

the Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mus- i The Roman applies it to one who merely was impe 
Eulmans on the banks of the river Prutli. rious to his acquaintance. 



352 



LORD BYRON. 



The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 

Alas ! the country ! — how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? 
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For what were all these country patriots born ? 
To lumt and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall — ■ 
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 
He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintained your 

prices ; 
He amplified, to every lord's content, 
The grand agrarian alchymy — high rent. 
Why did the Tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
The man v/as worth much more upon his throne. 
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt. 
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
And acres told upon the appointed day. 
But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
The purse-proud tenant never known to fail ? 
The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
The marsh reclaimed to most improving land ? 
The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace ! 
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
In vain the commons pass their patriot bill ; 
The landed interest — (you may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
The land's self-interest groans from shore to 

shore, 
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
Up ! up again : ye rents, exalt your notes, 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
And patriotism, so dehcately nice. 
Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
For ah! " the loaves and fishes," once so high. 
Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry; 
And nought remains of all the millions spent, 
Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
They who are not so had their turn — and turn 
About still flows from fortune's equal urn; 
Now let their virtue be its own reward. 
And share the blessings which themselves pre- 
pared. 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ! 
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling 

hands, 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
Safe in their barns these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent. 
Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung millions — why? for 

rent! 
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore 

they meant 
To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 



The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, miUions all mispcnt, 
How reconcile ? — by reconcihng rent. 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent I 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, rehgion — Rent, rent, rent ! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess: 
Thou shouldst have gotten more or eaten less : 
Now thou hast swill' d thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords, was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at the 

scar ! 
What, would they spread iheir earthquake even 

o'er cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change di foundling hospital ! 
Lo, mother church, while all rehgion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, tithes; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking vrants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;" 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : pray, who made it high ? 

XV. 
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
The now Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
Where Midas might again his wish behold 
In real paper or imagined gold. 
That magic palace of Alcina shows 
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
Were all her atoms of unleavened ore, 
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the 

stake. 
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
How rich is Britain I not indeed in mines, 
Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines; 
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 
All states, all things, all sovereigns, they control, 
And waft a loan " from Indus to the Pole.'' 
The banker — ^broker — baron — brethren, speed 
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
Fresh speculation follow each success ; 
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march — 
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's 

arch. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO, 



253 



Two Jews, a chosen people, caa command 
In every realm their scripture-promised land: 
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earth to them ? 
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and others both invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
But honour them as portion of the show — 
(Where now, oh. Pope '. is thy forsaken toe ? 
Could it not favour Judah with sorfte kicks ? 
Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks?") 
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of 
aesh." 

XVI, 

Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 
All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
I speak not of the sovereigns — they're ahke, 
A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 
Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 
While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
There Chateaubriand forms new books of mar- 
tyrs;* 
And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 
To furnish articles for the " Debats ;" 
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 
Alas '. how could the cabinet thus err ? 
Can peace be worth an ultra- minister ? 
He falls indeed, — perhaps to rise again, 
" Almost as quickly as he conquer' d Spain." 

XVIL 
Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride : 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen : 
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! could not Austria spare 
A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave — 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 



t Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the 
author in the minister, received a handsome compli- 
ment at Verona from a literary sovereign. "Ah! 
Monsieur C , are you related to that Chateau- 
briand who — who — who has written something (ecrit 
quelgue chose)V' It is said that the Author of Atala 
repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. 



The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 
What though she share no more, and shar«d in 

vain, 
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
Which swept from Moscow to the Southern seas, 
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
Where Parma views the traveller resort 
To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and 

mourn — 
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
To chill in their inhospitable clime, 
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold — 
But no, — their embers soon will burst the 

mould) ; 
She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Ra- 
cine's, 
Nor Homer's) ; lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans '. 
Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
Which cut her lord's half-shatter' d sceptre 

through. 
Is offered and accepted! Could a slave 
Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave i 
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 
And the Ex-empress grows as Ex a wife !. 
So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are 
jests ? 

XVIII. 
But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
And sketch the group — the picture's yet to 

come. 
My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 
While throng' d the chiefs of every Highland 

clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman •. 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
While all the Common Council cry, " Cla7- 

more 1" 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme , 
That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream '. 

Here, reader, will we pause: — ^if there's no harm 
in 

This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second " Car- 
men." 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO,, 



Long years'.— It tries the thrilling frame to 

bear 
And eagle-spirit of a child of song 
Long years of outrage, calumny and wrong j 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude. 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade. 



854 



LORD BYRON. 



Works through the throbbing eye-ball to the 

brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once, captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-open' d gate, 
Which nothing through its bars admits , save day 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; 
For I have battled with mine agony. 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
And revell'd among men and things divine. 
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
In honour of the sacred war for him, 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 
For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and Hmb. 
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
I have employ' d my penance to record 
How Salem's shrine was won, and how ador'd. 

II. 

But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : 

My long- sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know that my sorrows have wrung from me 

none. 
But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
Which ever playing round me came and smiled. 
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight. 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
I know not that — but in the innate force 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and 

why ? 
Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 
I was indeed dehrious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; 
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 
But let them go, or torture as they will. 
My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
Successful love may sate itself away. 
The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
To have all feeling save the one decay, 
And every passion into one dilate. 
As rapid rivers into ocean pour j 
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

III. 

Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul. 



Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd 

mind. 
And dim the little fight that's left behind 
With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 
With these and with their victims am I class' d, 
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have 

pass'd ; 
'Mid sights and sounds fike these my life may 

close : 
So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I had forgotten half I would forget. 

But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

In this vast iazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the 

mind. 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows. 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall, 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ;— 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's 

call — 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 
Who was not m.ade to be the mate of these, 
Nor bound between distraction and disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
Debarring me the usage of my own. 
Blighting my life in best of its career. 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and 

fear? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our stoical success ? 
No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, sister of my sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where tlwu art a guest ; 
Thy brother hates — but I can not detest, 
Thou pitiest not — ^but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part. 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gather' d lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 
And thus at the coUision of thj? name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame. 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Suflacient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas' 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO, 



255 



Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay' d — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, Uke One above ; 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master' d mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — ^if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest. 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain. 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 
My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 
Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made. 
And such a truant boy would end in woe. 
And that t'ne only lesson was a blow ; 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into one want. 
But undefined, and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee ; 
And then I lost my being all to be 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away— 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 
I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave ; 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck' d sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — » 
I will not raise my own in such reproof. 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof 



VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline. 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but man. 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the powers of evil can. 
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ! 
Because I loved what not to love, and see. 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
In mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with the brand of 

shame 
Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
And woo compassion to a bUghted name, 
Seahng the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt foil down, 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless 

halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown. 
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls I 
And thou, Leonora I thou — who wert ashamed 
That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to nie. 
From long infection of a den like this. 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, — 
Adores thee still; — and add — that when the 

towers 
And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. 
Or left untended in a dull repose, 
This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 
But thou — when all that birth and beauty throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late '. 



356 



LORD BYRON. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our country, our God — Oh ! my sire ! 
Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, ray father ! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my father and country are free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd. 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The king was on his throne, 

The satraps throng' d the hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold. 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless heathen's wine ! 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wax'd his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea' s seers are good, 

But here they have no skills 
And the unknown letters stood, 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 



A captive m the land, 

A stranger and a youtli, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom pass'd away, 
He in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy, the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate i 

The Persian on his throne !" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



"Expende Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 
Inveniesi" Juvenal, Sat. X. 



"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the 
Senate, by the Italians, and by the provincials of Oavl ; 
his moral virtues and military talents were loudly cele- 
brated; and those who derived any private benefit 
from his government announced in prophetic straias 
the restoration of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a 
few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an em- 
peror and an exile, till " 

GiBBfiN's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



'Tis done — but yesterday a king ! 

And arm'd with kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing. 

So abject — yet alive I 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew' d our earth with hostile bonea ? 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the morning star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind, 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown bhnd, 

Thou taught' st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — ^power to save — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor, till thy fall, cou'.d mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after- warriors more 
Than high philosophy can preach. 

And vainly preach'd before. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



257 



That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those pagod things of sabre-sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — * 
The earthquake shout of Victory, 

To thee the breath of hfe ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seemed made but to obey. 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
Ail quell'd ! — Dark .spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 

The desolater desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The arbiter of others' fate 

A suppliant for his own I 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

Het who of old would rend the oak 
Dream'd not of the rebound ; 

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,— 
Alone — how look' d he round? — 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 

An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found : 

He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman, t when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart. 

In savage grandeur, home. 
He dared depart, in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon' d power. 

The Spaniard,^ when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell, 

Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well : 

Yet better had he never known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leavest the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All evil spirit as thou art. 
It is enough to grieve the heart. 

To see thine own unstrimg ; 



• Certarainis gaudia, the expression of Attila, in his 
harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 
lons, given in Cassiodorus. 

i-MUo. 
tSylla. 

♦ Charles V. 

33 



To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own! 
And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb 

And thank' d him for a throne ! 
Fair freedom '. we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave beliind 
A brighter name to lure mankind \ 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain. 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away ; 
But yet, methought, the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd contempt could thus make rairtu 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour 1 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile, 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand. 
In loitering mood, upon the sand. 

That earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by- word to thy brow. 

Thou Timor! in his captive's cage* 
What thoughts will there be thine, 

While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
But one — " The world was mine ;" 

Unless, like he of Babylon, 

All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 
Life will not long confine 

That spirit pour'd so widely forth 

So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or like the thieft of fire from heaven, 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven. 

His vulture and his rock ? 



* The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane, 
f Prometheus. 



258 



LORD BYRON, 



Foredoom'd by God — ^by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very fiend's arch mock ;* 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold : sleep hath its own world, 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence ; sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality. 

And dreams in their developement have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 

They take a weight from off our waking toils. 

They do divide our being; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, 

And look like heralds of eternity : 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they 

will. 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
The dread of vanish' d shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh, 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — ^for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long hfe into one hour. 

n. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — ^but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it. could not pass away ; 



* "The fiend's arch mock — 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." 

Shakspeare. 



He had no breath, no being, but in her's ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight. 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colour'd all his objects ; — he had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life. 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — ^his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much. 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not— 

and why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she 

loved 
Another ; even now she loved another, 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison' d : 

Within an antique oratory stood 

The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of: then he 

lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 

'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
The lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his 

heart 
Was darken' d with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded as it came ; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 
For they did part with mutual smiles : he pass'd 
From out the massy gate of that old hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way. 
And ne'er repfss'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery chmes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



259 



With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself hke what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer. 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded hite waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber' d around: 
And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love was wed with one '. 

Who did not love her better : in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. 
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 
Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 
What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved. 
And he who had so loved her v^as not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not. 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was return' d. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The star-hght of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have 

been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour. 
And her who was his destiny, came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light: 
What business had they there at such a time ! 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed 



As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms, impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
With hatred and contention ; pain was mix'd 
In all which was served up to him, until, 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
Through that which had been death to many 

men, 
And made him friends of mountains : with the 

stars 
And the quick spirit of the universe 
He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
To him the book of night was open'd wide. 
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
A marvel and a secret — be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creaturos should be thus traced oat 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



TO THYRZA, 



Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what truth might well have said. 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? 
By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
Could this have been — a word, a lodk. 

That softly said, " We part in peace," 
Had taught my bosom how to brook, 

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
And didst thou not, since death for thee 

Prepared a Hght and pangless dart. 
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 



'Mithridates of Pontus. 



260 



LORD BYRON. 



Oh '- who like him had watch'd thee here? 

Oreadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 
Till all is past ? But when no more 

'Twas thine to reck of human woe, 
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 

Had fiow'd as fast — as now they flow 
Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers. 
Ere call'd but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours? 
Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thoughts of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
The kiss so guiltless and refined, 

That love each warmer wish forbore : 
Those eyes proclaim' d so pure a mind. 

Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 

When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; 
The song celestial from thy voice. 

But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine ? — ah, where art thou ? 
Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 

But never bent beneath till now ! 
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of woe for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 
But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
Impart some portion of thy bliss, 

"To wean me from mine anguish here. 
Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love %vas such to me, 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 



STANZAS. 



A WAT, away, ye notes of woe ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence, for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days— « 

But lull the chords, for now, alas! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am, on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust '. since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart I 

'Tis silent all ! — ^but on my ear 
The well-remember'd echoes thrill; 

I hear a voice I would not hear, 
A voice that now might well be still ; 



Yet oft my doubting som.1 'twill shake : 
Even slumber owns its gentle tone. 

Till consciousness will vainly wake 
To hsten, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza 1 waking as in sleep, 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep. 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wratk 
Will long lament the vanish' d ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 



TO THYRZA. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain, 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before . 
Though every joy is fled below. 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I'll be that light unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all and weeps with none- 
It was not thus in days more dear. 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left ?ne lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe I 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear. 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath. 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 

When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 
" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — " 

Alas, it gleam' d upon her grave '. 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins. 
" 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza' s pledge in better days, 
When love and hfe alike were new, 

How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



261 



The heart that gave itself with thee 
Is silent — ah, were mine as still! 

Though cold as even the dead can be, 
It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken. 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest ! 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled: 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA- 

When time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 

Oblivion ! may the languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep or wish the coming blow ; 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 

With no officious mourners near : 
I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
■ Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs. 

Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche, to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past. 
Even Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish— for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 

And woman's tears, produced at will. 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan ! 

For thousands death hath ceased to lour, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

'* Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



TO A LADY WEEPING 

Weep, daughter of a roy.il line, 
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 

Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 



Weep — for thy tears are virtue's tears- 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop, in future years, 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles 1 
March, 1812. 



INSCRIPTION 

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND ^D06. 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
And storied urns record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 
Not what he was, but what he should have been; 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him 

alone, 
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: 
While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with dis 

gust, 
Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for 

shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise — 
I never knew but one, and here he lies. 
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 



TO MISS CHAWORTH. 



Oh i had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear' d a token. 

These foHies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 



To thee these early faults I owe. 
To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

3. 
For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 

And all its rising fires could smother ; 
And now thy vows no more endure, 

Bestow'd by thee upon another. 

4. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 

And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 



362 



LORD BYRON 



Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

6. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee 

Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 
But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 



Yet all this giddy waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
These thoughtless strains to Passion's mea- 
sures ; 

8. 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd: — 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 



Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

10. 
But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

11. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
In spite of every vain endeavour ; 

And fiends might pity what I feel, 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



TO MISS CHAWORTH. 

Oh Memory, torture me no more, 

The present's all o'ercast ; 
My hopes of future bHss are o'er, 

In mercy veil the past. 
Why bring those images to view 

I henceforth must resign ? 
Ah ! why those happy hours renew. 

That never can be mine ? 
Past pleasure doubles present pain. 

To sorrow adds regret. 
Regret and hope are both in vain, 

I ask but to — forget. 



1804. 



TO AUGUSTA. 

I. 

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine. 



Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny, 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee 

II. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of 
yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

HI. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their re- 
ward. 
My whole life was a contest since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which 

marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay ; 
But now I fain would for a time survive. 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

V. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roU'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still up- 
hold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vahi, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was 
not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 



* Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making 
a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the 
sailors by the facetious name of " Foul-weather Jack." 
"But though it were tempest-tost, 
Still his bark could not be lost." 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in 
Anson's voyage,) and subsequently circumnavigated 
the world, many years after as commander of a similar 
expedition. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



263 



vn. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and 

brooks 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

VIIL 
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund of contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 
Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There maybe others which I less may show; — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter' d eye. 

X. 

I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere that or tkou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they 
are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XI. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask. 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 



* The lake of Newstead Abbey. 



XII. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun, 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have 
slept ; 
/ had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

XIII. 

With false ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me 

grew, 
And made me all which they can make— a 

name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 
And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 
And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart. 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last! 
October, 1816- 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 



Ebenezes Elliott was born on the seventeenth 
of March, 1781, at Masbro, a village near the 
town of Sheffield ; where he has since resided, and 
where he follows the calling of an Ironmonger. 
His birth, he informs his biographer, was registered 
only in the family Bible ; his father being " a dis- 
senter, and a thorough hater of the Church as by 
law established." The boyhood of the Poet was 
neglected, in consequence of his supposed inabihty 
to learn any thing useful ; and he was left, for the 
most part, to his own guidance during the years 
which generally form the character of the future 
man. His nature was dull and slow, but thought- 
ful and affectionate. Happily his "idle time" 
was not "idly spent;" his wanderings in the 
woods and fields laid the foundation of his after- 
fame ; and Thompson's Seasons made him a 
versifier : 

"His boobs were rivers, woods, and skies, 
The meadow and the moor." 

When at the age which determines destiny; 
or, as he quaintly expresses it, — " while it was 
doubtful whether he would become a man or a 
malt-worm," a country curate bequeathed to his 
home a Ubrary of valuable theological works. 
To this new source of profit and enjoyment, tinc- 
tured though it was with gloom, and to the con- 
versation and amateur-preaching of his father, 
"an old Cameronian and born rebel," whose re- 
ligion was of the severest kind, and whose " dread- 
ful declamations it was his misfortune to hear," 
may be traced the character, Hterary and poUtical, 
of the future Corn-Law Rhymer. Blessed or 
cursed with a hatred of wasted labour, he was 
never known to read a bad book through ; but he 
has read again and again, and deeply studied all 
the master-pieces of the mind, original and trans- 
lated ; and the master-pieces only : a circumstance 
to which he attributes his success. " There is 
not," he says, "a good thought in his works 
which has not been suggested by some object ac- 
tually before his eyes, or by some real occurrence, 
or by the thoughts of other men," — "but," he 
adds, " I can make other men's thoughts breed." 



His genius, according to his own view of it, is a 
compound of earnest perseverance, restless ob- 
servation, and instinctive or habitual h'atred of op- 
pression. He protests against being considered a 
coarse and careless writer ; and asserts that he has 
never printed a careless Une. 

So far my notice is indebted to the Corn-Law 
Rhymer himself For the rest, I learn that he is 
indefatigable in application to his unpoetic busi- 
ness ; a most kind husband and father, a pleasant 
associate, and a faithful friend ; energetic to an 
extreme in conversation ; roughly but powerfully 
eloquent; and that his "countenance bespeaks 
deep thought, and an enthusiastic temperament; 
his overhanging brow is stern to a degree, while 
the lower part of his face indicates mildness and 
benevolence." 

It is impossible to avoid some comment on the 
harsh, ungenerous, and we must add, un-English, 
political principles, which so continually influence, 
so thoroughly saturate, and so essentially impair 
the poetry of the Rhymer. In his " Corn- Law 
Rhymes," and poems avowedly political, we look 
for and pardon his strong and ungentle opinions ; 
but he can rarely ramble through a green lane, 
chmb the mountain's brow, or revel amid the 
luxuries of nature, without giving them expression. 
He has wooed Liberty with an unchaste passion. 
His fancy is haunted by images of tyrant- kings, 
tax-fed aristocrats, and bigoted oppressors. 

Still, with the highest and most enduring of 
British Poets, we must class Ebenezer Elliott. 
Among his poems there are many glorious and 
true transcripts of nature ; full of pathos and 
beauty, vigorous and original in thought ; and 
clear, eloquent, and impassioned in language. His 
feelings, though at times kindly and gentle, ar6 
more often dark, menacing, and stern ; but they 
are never grovelling or low. He has keen and 
burning sympathies ; but unhappily he forgets that 
the high-born and wealthy claim them and de- 
serve them, as well as the poor, and those who 
are more directly " bread-taxed ;" — ^that suffering 
is the common lot of humanity. 



(264) 



SONGS, 



265 



SONGS, 



LET IDLERS DESPAIR. 

LsT idlers despair ! there is hope for the wise, 

Who rely on their own hearts and hands ; 
*Lnd we read in their souls, by the flash of their 
eyes. 

That our land is the noblest of lands, 
jet knaves fear for England, whose thoughts wear 
a mask, 

While a war on our trenchers they wage : 
Free Trade, and no favour ! is all that we ask; 

Fair play, and the world for a stage ! 

Secure in their baseness, the lofty and bold 

Look down on their victims beneath ; 
Like snow on a skylight, exalted and cold, 

They shine o'er the shadow of death ; 
In the warm sun of knowledge, that kindles our 
blood, 

And fills our cheer' d spirits with day, 
Their splendour, contemn' d by the brave and the 
good. 

Like a palace of ice, melts away. 

Our compass, which married the east and the 
west — 

Our press, which makes many minds one — 
Our steam-sinew'd giant, that toils without rest — 

Proclaim that our perils are gone. 
We want but the right, which the God of the night 

Denies not to birds and to bees ; 
The Charter of Nature ! that bids the wing'd light 

Fly chainless as winds o'er the seas. 



FREE TRADE. 

Free Trade, like religion, hath doctrines of love. 
And the promise of plenty and health: 

It proclaims, while the angels look down from 
above, 
The marriage of labour and wealth. 

Free Trade, like religion, hath doctrines of peace, 

Universal as God's vital air ; 
And, thron'd o'er doomed evil, He hails its in- 
crease. 

While his enemies only despair. 

By all who their blood on truth's altars resign'd 

To enfranchise a sin-fetter' d race ! 
Our sons shall be free'd — ^from the curse of the 
blind ; 

And redeem' d from the bonds of the base. 

The ark of our triumph, far, far as seas roll, 
Shall ride o'er the wealth-freighted waves ; 

The chain'd of the drones be the chainless in soul, 
And tyrants made men by their slaves. 

The Hall of our Fathers — ^with Heav'n for its 
dome. 
And the steps of its portals the sea — 
Of labour and comfort will then be the home, 
And the temple where worship the free. 
34 



LIKE A ROOTLESS ROSE OR LILY. 

Like a rootless rose or lily ; 

Like a sad and life-long sigh : 
Like a bird pursa'd and weary, 

Doom'd to flutter till it die : 
Landless, restless, joyless, hopeless. 

Gasping still for bread and breath, 
To their graves by trouble hunted, 

Albion's helots live for death. 

Tardy day of hoarded ruin ! 

Wild Niagara of blood ! 
Coming sea of headlong millions. 

Vainly seeking work and food ! 
Why is famine reap'd for harvest? 

Planted curses always grow : 
Where the plough makes want its symbol, 

Fools will gather as they sow. 



YE WINTRY FLOWERS. 

Ye wintry flowers, whose pensive dyes 
Wake, where the summer's lily sleeps ! 
Ye are like orphans in whose eyes 
Their low-laid mother's beauty weeps. 
Oh, not like stars, that come at eve 
Through dim clouds glimmering one by one. 
And teach the failing heart to grieve 
Because another day is gone ! 
But like the hopes that linger yet 
Upon the grave of sorrow's love, 
And dare Affection to forget 
The form below, the soul above ; 
Or like the thoughts that bid despair 
Repose in faith on mercy's breast — 
Givers of wings ! from toil and care 
To fly away and be at rest. 



THE DAY WAS DARK. 

The day was dark, save when the beam 

Of noon through darkness broke, 
In gloomy state as in a dream, 

Beneath my orchard oak ; 
Lo, splendour, like a spirit came ! 

A shadow like a tree ! 
While there I sat, and named her name, 

Who once sat there with me. 

I started from the seat in fear ; 

I look'd around in awe ; 
But saw no beauteous spirit near, 

Though all that was I saw ; 
The seat, the tree, where oft in tears 

She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown, 
Her joys cut off in early years. 

Like gather'd flowers half-blown. 

Again the bud and breeze were met, 

But Mary did not come ; 
And e'en the rose, which she had set, 

Was fated ne'er to bloom ! 



266 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 



The thrush proclaim' d in accents sweet 
That winter's reign was o'er ; 

The bluebells throng'd around my feet, 
But Mary came no more. 

I think, I feel — but when will she 

Awake to thought again ? 
No voice of comfort answers me ; 

But God does nought in vain : 
He wastes no flower, nor bud, nor leaf, 

Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave ; 
And will he waste the hope which grief 

Hath planted in the grave ? 



ARTISANS' OUT-DOOR HYMN. 

When Stuart reign'd, God's people fled, 
Chased hke the helpless hunted hare ; 

But, kneeling on the mountain's head, 

There soi^ht the Lord, and found him there 

Lord ! we too suffer ; we too pray 
That thou wilt guide our steps aright ; 

And bless this day — tir'd Labour's day — 
And fill our souls with heavenly light. 

tor failing bread, six days in seven 

We till the black town's dust and gloom ; 

But here we drink the breath of heaven. 
And here to pray the poor have room. 

The stately temple, buih with hands. 
Throws wide its doors to pomp and pride ; 

But in the porch their beadle stands, 
And thrusts the child of toil aside. 

Therefore we seek the daisied plain. 
Or climb thy hills to touch thy feet ; 

There, far from splendour's heartless fane. 
Thy weary sons and daughters meet. 

Is it a crime to tell thee here. 

That here the sorely-tried are met ; 

To seek thy face, and find thee near ; 
And on thy rock our feet to set ? 

Where, wheeling wide, the plover flies; 

Where sings the woodlark on the tree ; 
Beneath the silence of thy skies. 

Is it a crime to worship thee ? 

We waited long, and sought thee, Lord, 

Content to toil, but not to pine ; 
And with the weapons of thy Word 

Alone assail' d oar foes and thine. 

Thy truth and thee we bade them fear ; 

They spurn thy truth, and mock our moan ! 
Thy counsels, Lord, they will not hear, 

And thou hast left them to their own.* 



* See Rebecca's Hymn in "Ivanhoe." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. 

Strong climber of the mountain's side, 

Though thou the vale disdain, 
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide 

The wonders of the lane. 
High o'er the rushy springs of Don 

The stormy gloom is roU'd ; 
The moorland hath not yet put on 

His purple, green, and gold. 
But here the titling spreads his wing. 

Where dewy daisies gleam ; 
And here the sun-flower of the spring 
Burns bright in morning's beam. 
To mountain winds the famish' d fox 

Complains that Sol is slow. 
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks 

His royal robe to throw. 
But here the lizard seeks the sun, 
Here coils in light the snake ; 
And here the fire-tuft hath begun 

Its beauteous nest to make. 
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee 

Where verdure fires the plain. 
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see 

The glories of the lane ! 
For, oh, I love these banks of rock, 

This roof of sky and tree, 
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock; 

And wakes the earhest bee ! 
As spirits from eternal day 

Look down on earth secure ; 
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey 

A world in miniature ; 
A world not scorn' d by Him who made 

Even weakness by his might ; 
But solemn in his depth of shade, 

And splendid in his light. 
Light ! not alone on clouds afar 

O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, 
Or widely teaching sun and star 

Thy glorious thoughts are read ; 
Oh, no ! thou art a wondrous book, 

To sky, and sea, and land — 
A page on which the angels look, 

Which insects understand ! 
And here, oh. Light ! minutely fair, 

Divinely plain and clear. 
Like splinters of a crystal hair, 

Thy bright small hand is here. 
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, 

Is Huron, girt with wood ; 
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide — 

And that, Niagara's flood. 
What tidings from the Andes brings 

Yon fine of liquid light. 
That down from heav'n in madness fUngs 

The blind foam of its might? 
Do I not hear his thunder roll — 
The roar that ne'er is still? 
'Tis mute as death ! — but in my soul 
It roars, and ever will. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



267 



What forests tall of tiniest moss 

Clothe every little stone ! 
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss 

O'er pigmy valleys lone ! 
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, 

Ambitious of the sky, 
Thy feather o'er the steepest edge 

Of mountains mushroom high. 
Oh, God of marvels ! who can tell 

Whai myriad hving things 
On these gray stones unseen may dwell ! 

What nations, with their kings '. 
I feel no shock, I hear no groan 

While fate perchance o'erwhelms 
Empires on this subverted stone — 

A hundred ruin'd realms ! 
Lo, in that dot, some mite, like me, 

Impell'd by woe or whim. 
May crawl, some atoms' cliff to see — 

A tiny world to him ! 
Lo, while he pauses, and admires 

The works of nature's might, 
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires. 

And all to him is night ! 
Oh, God of terrors ! what are we ? — 

Poor insects, spark' d with thought ! 
Thy whisper. Lord, a word from thee. 

Could smite us into nought ! 
But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, 

And mix it with the deep, 
Safe in the hollow of thy hand 

Thy httle ones would sleep. 



THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE 
BLOSSOM. 

Before thy leaves thou com'st once more, 

White blossom of the sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er. 
Will then lie low. 

A month at least before thy time 

Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; 
For well thou know'st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime. 
No more to be. 

Why here in winter ? No storm lours 

O'er nature's silent shroud ! 
But bUthe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High o'er the doomed untimely flowers 
In beauty bowed. 

Sweet violets in the budding grove 

Peep where the glad waves run; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love, 
Sing to the sun. 

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 

Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold. 
Smiles o'er the well in summer cold. 
And daisied sod. 



But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 

And flowers in winter blow, 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
And thinks me slow. 

For as the rainbow of the dawn 
Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the saddened lawn 
I smile and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 

Thy leaves will come ! but songful spring 

Will see no leaf of mine ; 
Her bells will ring, her bride' s-maids sing. 
When my young leaves are withering, 
Where no suns shine. 

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath, 

When June's sweet Sabbaths chime! 
But, thine before my time, oh, death! 
I go where no flow'r blossometh, 
Before my time. 

Even as the blushes of the morn 
Vanish, and long ere noon 
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, 
So fair I bloomed ; and was I born 
To die as soon ? 

To love my mother, and to die- 
To perish in my bloom '. 
Is this my sad, brief history . — 
A tear dropped from a mother's eye 
Into the tomb. 

He lived and loved — will sorrow say—" 

By early sorrow tried ; 
He smiled, he sighed, he past away : 
His life was but an April day, — 
He loved, and died ! — 

My mother smiles, then turns away. 

But turns away to weep : 
They whisper round me — what they say 
I need not hear, for in the clay 
I soon must sleep. 

, love is sorrow ! sad it is 

To be both tried and true ; 
I ever trembled in my bliss: 
Now there are farewells in a kiss, — 
They sigh adieu. 

But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade. 

Where Don reflects the skies ; 
And many a youth in Shire -cliffs' shade 
Will ramble where my boyhood played. 
Though j^Ifred dies. 

Then panting woods the breeze will feel, 

And bowers, as heretofore. 
Beneath their load of roses reel ; 
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal 
No more, no more. 



268 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 



Well, lay me by my brother's side, 

Where late sve stood and wepi 
For I was stricken when he died, — 
I felt the arrow as he sighed 
His last, and slept. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor, 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 

The meadow, and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave, 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother every where ! 

And is thy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claim' d. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honouring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath' d the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labour's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows. 

Wild bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 

I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need' St not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 

That cannot feel hOw fair, 
Amid all beauty beautiful. 

Thy tender blossoms are ! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 

How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still. 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ! 
While silent showers are falling slow, 

And 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 

Lone whispering through the bush ! 
The primrose to the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss'd gray stone 

Hath laid her wearied head ; 
But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 

In all their beauteous power. 
The fresh green days of life's fair spring, - 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorn'd bramble of the brake ! once more 

Thou bidd'st mc be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 

In freedom and in joy. 



JOHN WILSON. 



John Wilson was born at Paisley, in 1789. 
After going through a preparatory course of study 
at the University of Glasgow, he was entered a 
fellow-commoner at Magdalen College, Oxford; 
and very soon obtained some portion of that fame 
of which he was destined to participate so largely. 
Much of his paternal property was lost by the 
failure of a mercantile concern in which it had 
been embarked ; but enough remained to pur- 
chase the elegancies of life : he bought the beau- 
tiful estate of EUeray, on the lake of Winander- 
mere — fit dwelling for a Poet — and continues to 
inhabit it, when his professional duties permit his 
absence from Edinburgh. In 1812, he published 
the Isle of Palms ; and the City of the Plague, 
in 1816. In 1820, he .became, under circum- 
stances highly honourable to him, a successful 
candidate for the Chair of Moral Philosophy, in 
the University of the Scottish metropolis. He has 
since published but little poetry : his prose tales — 
"The Trials of Margaret Lindsay," ' ' The Forces- 
ters," and "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life" 
— have, however, amply compensated the world 
for his desertion of the Muses ; and his contribu- 
tions to " Blackwood's Magazine," which are too 
strongly marked to leave any doubt of their au- 
thorship, have established for him a high and en- 
during reputation. The conduct of this periodi- 
cal is so universally understood to be in the hands 
of the Professor, that we may consider ourselves 
justified in describing him as the Editor. He has 
long upheld its supremacy: the best supported 
Magazines of England have failed competing with 
it ; because there is no living writer whose talents 
are ao versatile, and consequently so fitted to deal 
with the varied topics upon which his judgment 
or his fancy must be employed. His learning is 
both profound and excursive ; his criticism search- 
ing and sound ; his descriptions of scenery exqui- 
sitely true ; his paintings of human character and 
passion admirable ; his wit and humour delight- 
ful, when it does not degenerate into " fun;" and 
no writer of modern times has written so many 
deUcious eloquent passages which produce, if we 
may so express ourselves, gushes of admiration. 
The mind of Wilson is a remarkable blending of 
the kindly and the bitter : — his praise is always 
full and hearty ; his censure almost unendurable : 
he appears to have no control over his likings or 
dislikings ; — at times, pursues with almost super- 
human wrath, and then, again, becomes so gene- 
rous and eloquent, that he absolutely makes an 



author's character, and establishes his position by 
a few sentences of approval. From all his criti- 
cisms there may be gathered some evidence of a 
sound heart ; of a nature hke the Highland breezes 
— keen, but healthy; often most invigorating when 
most severe — but which may be safely encoun- 
tered by those whose stamina is unquestionable. 
The personal appearance of Professor Wilson is 
very remarkable: his frame is, like his mind, 
powerful and robust. His complexion is florid, 
and his features are finely marked ; the mouth is 
exquisitely chiselled, the expression of his coun- 
tenance is gentle to a degree ; but there is "a 
lurking devil" in his keen gray eye, that gives a 
very intelligible hint to the observer. His fore- 
head is broad and high. To us, among all the 
great men we have ever beheld — and they have 
not been few — there is not one who so thoroughly 
extorts a mingled sensation of love and fear. 

The poetry of Professor Wilson has not attain- 
ed the popularity to which it is entitled ; probably 
because when he first published, he had to com- 
pete with a formidable rival in his own illustrious 
countryman, and the fame which, in England, 
nearly at the same period, was about to absorb 
that of all other Bards. His poems are, however, 
full of beauty ; they have all the freshness of the 
heather, — a true relish for nature breaks out in 
them all : there is no puerile or sickly sentiment- 
alism ; — they are the earnest breathings of a 
happy and buoyant spirit ; a giving out, as it 
were, of the breath that has been inhaled among 
the mountains. They manifest, moreover, the 
finest sympathies with humanity ; nothing harsh 
or repining seems to have entered the Poet's 
thoughts ; they may be read as compositions of 
the highest merit, — as bearing the severest teat 
of critical asperity ; but also as graceful and beau- 
tiful transcripts of nature, when her grace and 
beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is 
no evidence of "fine phrenzy" in his glances 
"from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;" 
but there is ample proof of the depth of his wor- 
ship, and the fulness of his affection for all the ob- 
jects which " Nature's God" has made graceful 
and fruitful. It is worthy of comment, that, as 
far as we know, Wilson has never penned a line 
of satire, in poetry, — seeming as if his thoughts 
could take in nothing but what was good, and 
holy, and tranquillizing, when his associates were 
the Muses. 

(269) 



370 



JOHN WILSON 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Time, the Afternoon. — Two Naval Officers vxtlh- 
ing along the tanks of the Thames. — They sit 
down on a stone seat fronting the river. 

Fkankfort, Wilmot. 
frankfort. 
My heart feels heavier every step I take 
Towards the city. Oh ! that I could drop 
Down like a bird upon its nest, at once 
Into my mother's house. There might my soul 
Find peace, even 'mid the silent emptiness 
Tliat told me she had perish' d. 



All around 
Appears so bright, so tranquil, and so calm. 
That happy omens rise on every side. 
To strengthen and support us in our fears. 

FRANKFORT. 

O Wilmot ! to my soul a field of graves, 
A church-yard fill'd with marble monuments, 
Profoundly hush'd in death's own sanctity. 
Seems not more alien to the voice of Hope, 
Than that wide wilderness of domes and spires, 
Hanging o'er the breathless city. 



See ! my friend, 
How bright the sunshine dances in its joy 
O'er the still flow of this majestic river. 
I know not how, but gazing on that Ught 
So beautiful, all images of death 
Fade from my roused soul, and I beheve 
That our journey here must end in happiness. 

FRANKFORT. 

Is it the hour of prayer? 

WILMOT. 

The evening service, 
Methinks, must now be closed. 

FRANKFORT. 

There comes no sound 
Of organ-peal or choral symphony 
From yonder vast cathedral. How it stands 
Amid the silent houses, with a strange 
Deep silence of its own ! I could believe 
That many a Sabbath had pass'd prayerless on 
Within its holy sohtude. No knee 
This day, methinks, hath bent before its altar. 



It is a solemn pile ! yet to mine eye 
There rests above its massive sanctity 
The clear blue air of peace. 

FRANKFORT. 

A solemn pile ! 
Ay ! there it stands, like a majestic ruin. 



Mouldering in a desert ; in whose silent heart 
No sound hath leave to dwell. I knew it once, 
When music in that chosen temple raised 
The adoring soul to Heaven. But one dread 

year 

Hath done the work of ages ; and the Plague 
Mocks in his fury the slow hand of time. 

WILMOT. 

The sun smiles on its walls. 

FRANKFORT. 

Why does the finger, 
Yellow 'mid the sunshine on the Minster-clock, 
Point at that hour? It is most horrible. 
Speaking of midnight in the face of day. 
During the very dead of night it stopp'd. 
Even at the moment when a hundred hearts 
Paused with it suddenly, to beat no more. 
Yet, wherefore should it run its idle round? 
There is no need that men should count the 

hours 
Of time, thus standuig on eternity. 
It is a death-Uke image. 

WILMOT. 

I could smile 
At such fantastic terrors. 

FRANKFORT. 

How can I, 
When round me silent Nature speaks of death, 
Withstand such monitory impulses ? 
When yet far off I thought upon the plague. 
Sometimes my mother's image struck my soul 
In unchanged meekness and serenity. 
And all my fears were gone. But these green 

banks. 
With an unwonted flush of flowers o'ergrown. 
Brown when' I left them last, with frequent feet 
From morn till evening hurrying to and fro, 
In mournful beauty seerr^ encompassing 
A still forsaken city of the dead. 

WILMOT. 

It is the Sabbath-day— the day of rest. 

FRANKFORT. 

O unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore 

Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames 

Thus silently ! Now every sail is furl'd, 

The oar hath dropp'd from out the rower's hand 

And on thou flow'st in hfeless majesty. 

River of a desert lately filled with joy I 

O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone 

The air is clear and cloudless as at sea 

Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, 

And not one single wreath of smoke ascends 

Above the stillness of the towers and spires. 

How idly hangs that arch magnificent, 

Across the idle river ! Not a speck 

Is seen to move along it. There it hangs,, 

Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky. 



Methinks such words bespeak a soul at rest, 

And willing, in this universal calm. 

To abide, whate'er it be, the doom of Fate. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



271 



FRANKFORT. 

I feel as if such solemn images 
Of desolation had recall'd my soul 
From its own individual wretchedness ; 
As if one moment I forgot my parent, 
And all the friends I love, in the sublime 
And overwhelming presence of mortality. 



Now, that your soul feels strong, let us proceed. 
With humble hope, towards your mother's house. 

FRANKFORT. 

No, friend ! here must we part ! If e'er again 
We meet in this sad world, thou mayst behold 
A wretch bow'd down to the earth by misery, 
Ghost-hke 'mid living men; but rest assured, 

gentlest friend ! that, though my soul be dead 
To all beside, at sight of thee 'twill burn 

As with the everlasting fires of joy, 
Bursting its bonds of mortal wretchedness. 

WILMOT. 

We must not — will not part. 

FRANKFORT. 

Now, and for ever. 

1 walk into yon city as the tomb ! 

A voice comes to me from its silent towers, 
"Mortal, thy days are number'd !" Ere I go. 
Kiss me, and promise that my name shall live 
Sacred for ever in thy memory. 

WILMOT. 

We must not — will not part. 

FRANKFORT. 

* What said my friend ? 

WILMOT. 

Here, by my father's soul (a fearless man, 

Who used to say he never loved his friends 

But in their combats with adversity) 

I swear, (and may we never meet in Heaven 

If that dread oath be broken !) day and night, 

Long as thou sojourn'st on thy work of love 

Within this plague-struck city, at thy side 

To move for ever an attending shadow ; 

Amid the silence or the shrieks of death. 

Serene in unappalled confidence. 

That thou wilt walk unharm'd, wilt find the 

house 
Of thy parent, and her holy family, 
Pass'd over by the angel of the Lord ! 
For the blessings of the poor have sanctified 
The widow's lowly porch — life still is there. 

FRANKFORT. 

O friend . most cruel from excess of love ! 
In all the beauty of thy untamed spirit 
Thou walkest to perdition. Do not I 
Look, as I feel, most like thy murderer? 
Return unto our ship. 



Frankfort, remember. 
When the wild cry, " A man is overboard," 
Rung through our decKS, till dumb and motionless 



Stood the whole crew, fear-stricken by the storm, 

Who at that moment leapt into the sea, 

And seized the drowning screamer by the hair ? 

Who was that glorious being ? Who the wretch 

Then rescued from the waves ? I loved thee well 

Before I hung upon thy saving arm 

Above the angry waves. But, from that hour, 

I felt my soul call'd on by Providence 

To dedicate itself for aye to thee. 

And God's will must be done. 

FRANKFORT. 

Wilmot, dost think 
My mother can be living? 

WILMOT. 

The soul oft feels 
Mysterious presence of realities 
Commg we know not whence, yet banishing 
With power omnipotent all misgiving fears. 
So feel I at this moment — she is living. 

FRANKFORT. 

O God forbid, that I should place belief 
In these dim shadowings of futurity ? 
Here, on this very spot where we now rest, 
Upon the morning I last sail'd from England, 
My mother put her arms around my neck. 
And in a solemn voice, unchoked by tears. 
Said, "Son, a last farewell!" That solemrt 

voice, 
Amid the ocean's roaring sohtude. 
Oft pass'd across my soul, and I have heard it 
Steal in sad music from the sunny calm. 
Upon our homeward voyage, when we spake 
The ship that told us of the Plague, I knew 
That the trumpet's voice would send unto our 

souls 
Some dismal tidings ; for I saw her sails 
Black in the distance, flinging off with scorn 
A shower of radiance from the blessed sun, 
As if her crew would not be comforted. 



The weakness of affection, prone to fear! 
Be comforted by me — my very dreams 
Of late have all been joyous. 

FRANKFORT. 

Joyous dreams ! 
My hours of sleep are now but few indeed. 
Yet what have I still dreamt of? healthful faces, 
Round a sweet fire-side, bright with gratitude? 
The soft voice of domestic happiness ? 
Laughter disturbing with the stir of joy 
The reveries of the spirit ? — Oh ! my friend ! 
Far other sounds and sights have fill'd my 

dreams ! 
Still noiseless floors, untrod by human feet ; 
Chairs standing rueful in their emptiness ; 
An unswept hearth choked up by dust and ashes; 
Beds with their curtains idly hanging down 
Unmoved by the breath of fife : wide open win 

dows. 
That the fresh air might purify the room 
From vapours of the noisome pestilence ; 
In a dark chamber, ice-cold like a tomb, 
A corpse laid out — O God ! my mother's corps© 



272 



JOHN WILSON. 



Woefully alter' d by a dire decay ; 
While my stunn'd spirit shudder'd at the toll, 
The long, slow, dreary, sullen, mortal toll 
Of a bell swinging to the hand of death. 
But this is idle raving — hope is gone — 
And fears and apprehensions, day and night. 
Drive where they vidll my unresisting soul. 

WILMOT. 

But that it is day-hght, I could believe 
That yonder, moving by the river-side, 
Came on a ghost. Did ever eye behold 
A thing so death-Uke in the shape of man ? 
[An old man of a miserable and squalid appear- 
ance comes up, carrying an infant in his arms. 

FRANKFORT. 

God's blessing on thee ! wilt thou rest, old man, 
Upon this traveller's seat ? 

OLD MAN. 

God's blessing on thee ! 
What, dost thou mean to taunt whh mockery 
An old man tottering to the grave ? What plea- 
sure 
Can ye young wretches find in scoffing thus 
At the white head of hunger'd beggary? 
Have ye no fathers ? Well it is for them 
That their dry hearts are spared the bitterness 
Of seeing, in the broad and open day, 
Their reckless children sporting with old age. 

FRANKFORT. 

Father, judge kindly of us. 



Let me go 
Untroubled on my way. Do you pity me ? 
Then give me alms : this thing upon my arm 
Is teasing me for food : I have it not — 
Give me your alms. 

FRANKFORT. 

See ! here is bread, old man ! 
I ask your blessing — come you from the city. 
And none to guide your steps along the brink 
Of this great river? 



Yea ! they all are dead 
Who once did walk vdth me most lovingly, 
Slowlier than these slow steps. This piece of 

wood. 
This staff, is all I have to lean on now. 
And this poor baby, whom its nurse would give 
For a short pastime to his grandsire's arms, 
No other nurse hath now, but wither' d age — 
Sour, sullen, hopeless, God-forsaken age. 

FRANKFORT. 

Ib the plague raging ? 



Ay, and long will rage. 
The judgments of the prophets of old time 
Are now fulfilling. Young men ! turn and flee 
From the devoted city. Would ye hear 
What now is passing in yon monster's heart ? 



FRANKFORT. 

We listen to thy voice. 



Three months ago, 
Within my soul I heard a mighty sound 
As of a raging river, day and night 
Triumphing through the city: 'twas the voice 
Of London sleepless in magnificence. 
This morn I stood and listen'd. " Art thou dead, 
Queen of the world!" I ask'd my awe-stE«ck 

heart, 
And not one breath of life amid the silence 
Disturb'd the empire of mortality. 
Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, 
The fountain of the river that made glad 
The City of the Isle! 

FEANKFORT. 

We hear thy voice. 

OLD MAN. 

Sin brought the judgment : it was terrible 
Go, read your Bible, young men ; hark to him 
Who, in a vision, saw the Lion rage 
Amid the towers of Judah, while the people 
Fell on their faces, and the hearts of kings 
Perish'd, and prophets wonder'd in their fear. 
Then came the dry wind from the wilderness, 
Towards the hill of Sion, not to fan 
Or cleanse, but, whirlwind-like, to sweep aw^y 
The tents of princes and the men of war. 

FRANKFORT. 

Wilmot ! methinks most like an ancient prophet, 
With those white locks and wild unearthly eyes, 
He comes forth from the desolated city, 
A man who cannot die. — may I ask, 
Most reverend father, if 



Hush ! hush ! lie still ! — 
Didst hear this infant cry ? So small a sound 
Ought not to startle thus a wretch who comes 
From a three month's sojourn in a sepulchre. 
Here ! infant, eat this bread, and hold thy peace. 
Young men, disturb me not with foolish ques- 
tions ; 
Your faces are towards the city : Will ye dare 
The monster in his den ? Then go and die I 
Two little drops amid a shower of rain, 
Swallow'd up in a moment by the heedless earth. 

FRANKFORT. 

I fain would ask one question ; for, old man, 
My parent lived in London, and I go 
To seek her in that city of the tombs 



Think of her with the dead I A ship at sea 
(Methinks I speak unto a mariner) 
Goes to the bottom. Would you hope to find 
Your friend alone, of all the fated crew. 
Alive on a plank next day amid the waves f 
Think of her with the dead ! and praise the Lord . 

WILMOT. 

Let us begone, the day is wearing fast. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



•273 



Know ye what you will meet within the city? 
Together will ye walk, through long, long 

streets, 
All standing silent as a midnight church. 
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass 
Rustling beneath your feet ; the very beating 
Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small 

voice 
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, 
Will speak a solemn language in the desert. 
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, 
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight, 
As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there, 
Darkening the city with the shadows of death. 
Know ye that hideous hubbub ? Hark, far off 
A tumult like an echo ! on it comes, 
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning 

prayer ; 
And louder than all, outrageous blasphemy. 
The passing storm hath left the silent streets. 
But are these houses near you tenantless ? 
Over your heads from a window, suddenly 
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death 
With voice not human. Who is he that flies, 
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path ? 
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes. 
Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls. 
As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones, 
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, 
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof, 
And let the Pest's triumphal chariot 
Have open way advancing to the tomb 
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry 
O f earthly kings ! A miserable cart, 
Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along 
By shrunk steeds, skeleton-anatomies ! 
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch, 
Doora'd never to return from the foul pit, 
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. 
Would you look in? Grey hairs and golden 

tresses. 
Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smiled for 

years ; 
And many a rosy visage smiling still ; 
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt. 
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone ; 
And youthful frames, august and beautiful, 
In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all, 
Embraced in ghastliness ! But look not long. 
For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there, 
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend 
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white 

hand, 
Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair- 
Let me sit down beside you. I am faint. 
Talking of horrors that I look'd upon 
At last without a shudder. 

FRANKFORT. 

Give me the child. 



Let the wretch rest. 'Twas but a passing pang, 
And I feel strong again.— Dost smile, poor babe ? 
Yes ! Thou art glad to see the full-orb'd eye, 
The placid cheek, and sparkling countenance 
Of ruddy health once more ; and thou wouldst go 
35 



With them thy young heart thinks so beautiful, 

Nor ever look behind at the old man 

Who brought thee from the grave ! Sweet 

thoughtless wretch ! 
I cling to thee with a more desperate love 
Because of thy ingratitude, 

FRANKFORT. 

Old man, 
Is thy blood in his veins ? 



All dead — all dead ■ 
Round the baptismal font with awe we knelt, 
My four sweet daughters and their loving hus- 
bands. 
I held my last-born grandchild in my arms, 
But as the hallow'd water touch'd her face. 
Even then she sicken'd, and a mortal paleness 
Froze every parent's cheek. "The Plague is 

here !" 
The priest exclaim' d ; and like so many ghosts, 
We parted in the church-yard. my God ! 
I know that Thou in wrath art merciful, 
For thou hast spared this babe for my old age ! 
But all who knelt round that baptismal font 
Last Sabbath morning — one short week ago — 
Are dead and buried — save one little child. 
And a grey-headed man of fourscore years, 

FRANKFORT. 

I dare not comfort thee. 



Why not, sweet youth! 
Thy very voice is comfort — my dim eyes 
Look on thee like a vision of delight. 
Coming back in beauty from th' abyss of years. 
Let me hear thy voice once more ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Father ! that book 
With whose worn leaves the careless infant plays, 
Must be the Bible. Therein thy dim eyes 
Will meet a cheering light ; and silent words 
Of mercy breathed from Heaven, will be exhaled 
From the blest page into thy wither'd heart. 
The grace of God go with thee. 



Gentle youth. 
Thy voice reminds me of a boy who died 
Thirty long years ago. Thou wilt pass on, 
And we must meet no more ; yet could I think 
Thou wert my son returning from the grave. 
Or from some far off land where he had gone. 
And left us to our tears. 

FRANKFORT. 

They are not lost 
Who leave their parents for the calm of Heavea, 
Forgive a young man speaking thus to age, 
'Tis done in love and reverence. 

OLD MAN. 

'Tis the Bible! 
I know and feel it is a blessed book. 
And I remember how it stopp'd my tears 
In days of former sorrows, hke some herb 
Of sovereign virtue to a wound applied 



374 



JOHN WILSON. 



But thou wilt pity me, when I confess 
That ofttimes more than mortal agony 
Shoots through my heart, when the most holy 

words 
Of Jesus shine before me. There I see 
Miracles of mercy and of saving love : 
The widow sings for joy, — deliverance 
Comes to the madman howling in his chains, — 
And life slirs in the tomb. I shut the book, 
And wonder where I am ; for all around me 
Looks as if God had left this woeful earth 
To ruin and despair, while his own word 
Doth seem delusion, or with fearful doubts 
My soul disturbs with sore perplexity. 
To the Hebrew prophecies my spirit turns. 
And feeds on wailing lamentations. 
And dim forebodings of Almighty wrath. 
Yea ! often do I see this very Plague 
By these wild seers foretold, and all their songs 
So doleful speak unto my ringing ear 
Of this dread visitation. Idle dreams 
Of my old crazed brain ! But aye they haunt me, 
And each plain phrase is clothed with mystic 

meaning. 
In spite of reason ; sad bewildering '. 
When still the soul keeps fighting with its 

fetters, 
Yet hugs them self-imposed. 

FRANKFORT. 

Such dreams will vanish 
When the sweet rural air, or breeze from the sea 
Sinks round thee. Art thou going to a home 
Where wife or child expect thee ? 

OLD MAN. 

Hush, sweet babe. 
There is a dweUing on the lone sea-shore 
Where I will carry thee. — An angel's voice 
Told me to leave the city. You will see her, 
The Angel of the poor ! Through every street 
The radiant creature walks. 

WILMOT (fo FRANKFORT.) 

Though dark his bram, 
It has, thou seest, a heavenly visitor, 
That comfort brings when reason's self is gone. 



*Tis no delusion. When you see her face. 
Her pale face smiling on you suddenly. 
Pale almost as the raiment that she wears. 
And hear her voice, all one low mournful tone, 
Charming away despair, then will ye say 
" The angel this of whom the old man spake;" 
Yet something lying far withia her eyes 
Will tell that she is mortal. — Fare ye well ! 
But list! sweet youths ! where'er ye go, beware 
Of those dread dwellings all round Aldgate- 

church. 
For to me it seemeth that most dismal pile 
Is the black Palace of the Plague, and none 
May pass it by and live. God bless you both. 

[The Old Man passes on. 

FRANKFORT. 

His words have sent a curse into my heart. 

The miserable spoke of misery 

Even with his parting farewell. Aldgate-church ! 



WILMOT. 

He passeth like a shadow from the city ! 

A solemn traveller to the world of spirits. 

Methought his hollow and unearthly voice 

Came from the desolation of his soul. 

Like the wind at midnight moaning past our ship 

A ghastly sound once heard and never more. 

— Frankfort, speak to me. 

FRANKFORT. 

All round Aldgate-church , 
Said he not so ? Close to that church-yard wall 
My mother's dwelling stands: her bed- room 

window 
Looks o'er the grave-stones and the marble 

tombs. — 
All hope is dead within me. 

WILMOT. 

Shall I go 
And ask the old man if he knows your mother ! 
Perhaps — 

FRANKFORT. 

Oh ! ask him not, an hour will bring us 

In presence of the house where I was born. 

I wish he had staid with us yet a while. 

For his voice held me in captivity. 

Wild voice and haggard cheek. He heeded not 

Me or my sorrow — in his misery 

Both blind and deaf, without the help of age. 

Methinks I see the cold wet tomb-stone lying 

Upon my father's grave — another name, 

" Mary his wife," is graven 



All have not perish' d, 

FRANKFORT. 

What, hoping still ? Come, let us onward walk 

With heads uncover'd, and with prostrate souls, 

Unto the humbled city of despair. 

Amid the roar of ocean-solitude 

God hath been with us, and his saving hand 

Will be our anchor in this dreadful calm. 

This waveless silence of the sea of death. 



SCENE II. 

A great square in the city. — A multitude of mise' 
rdble Men and Women crowding around a Person 
of a wild and savage appearance, dressed in a 
fantastical garb with an hour-glass in his hand, 

ASTROLOGER. 

The sun is going down, and when he sets, 
You know my accursed gift of prophecy 
Departeth from me, and I then become 
BUnd as my wretched brethren. Then the 

Plague 
Riots in darkness 'mid his unknown victims. 
Nor can I read the names within his roll 
Now register' d in characters of blood. 
Come to me, all ye wearied, who would rest, 
Who would exchange the fever's burning pillow 
For the refreshing coolness of the grave ! 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE 



276 



Come hither, all ye orphans of a day, 

And I will tell you when your heads shall rest 

Upon your parents' bosoms. Yearn ye not 

To clasp their shroudless bodies, and to lie 

In the dark pit by love made beautiful ! 

Where are ye, veiled widows ! in the tomb 

The marriage-lamp doth burn unquenchably. 

Dry up your tears, fair virgins ! to the grave 

Betrothed m your pure simplicity ! 

Still is one countenance beautiful in death, 

And it will lean to-night upon a breast 

White with the snows of perfect innocence. 

— I call upon the wicked ! let him show 

His face among the crowd, and I will tell him 

His dreams of horror and his works of sin. 

[A Man of a fierce and ferocious aspect ad- 
vances from the crowd. 



I ask thee not, thou juggHng driveller. 
Whether the Plague hath fixed his eyes on me, 
Determined to destroy. Let them who fear 
Death and his pit, with pale beseeching hands 
Buy with their moneys the awards of fate. 
And die in poverty. Thou speak' st of guilt, 
And know'st forsooth each secret deed of sin 
Done in the dark hour. Tell me, driveller ! 
Where 1, who lay no claim to honesty. 
Came by this gold. I'll give thee half of it 
If thou speak'st truly. Was there robbery ! 

ASTROLOGER. 

Flee, murderer ! from my sight ! I touch thy gold ! 
'Twould Stain my fingers ! See the blood-gouts 

on it. 
Hhher thou comest in savage hardihood. 
Yet with a beating heart. I saw thee murder him : 
What were his silver hairs, his tremulous voice. 
His old blind eyes to thee !— Ha ! shrinking off. 
Awed by a driveller ! Seize the murderer ! 

You will find the bloody knife 

[The Man rushes off, and all make way for him. 



Mine eyes at once 
Did read the murderer's soul. 

Voice from the crowd. 

Guilt nor disease 
Are hidden from his ken — he knows them all. 
[Two Women advance eagerly from the crowd. 

FIRST WOMAN. 

Listen to me before that woman speaks. 
I went this morning to my lover's house, 
Mine own betrothed husband, who had come 
From sea two days ago. The house was empty ; 
As the cold grave that longeth for its coffin, 
'Twas damp and empty ; and I shriek' d in vain 
On him who would not hear. Tell me his fate. 
Say that he lives, or say that he is dead — 
But tell me, — tell me, lest I curse my God, 
Some tidings of him ; shouldst thou see him lying 
Even in yon dreadful pit. Do you hear ? speak, 

speak, 
God ! — no words can be so terrible 
As that mute face, whose blackness murders hope. 
And freezes my sick soul. Heaven's curse light 

on thee, 
for that dumb mockery of a broken heart ! 



ASTROLOGER. 

I see him not, some cloud envelops him ! 

WOMAN. 

He hath left the city then, and gone on ship-board? 

ASTROLOGER. 

I see him not, some cloud envelops him ! 

WOMAN. 

What I hast thou not a wondrous glass that shows 
Things past, or yet to come ? give me one look, 
That I may see his face so beautiful, 
Where'er it be ; or in that ghastly pit, 
Or smiling 'mid his comrades on the deck, 
While favouring breezes waft his blessed ship 
Far from the Plague, to regions of delight, 
Where he may live for ever. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Is your lover 
A tall thin youth, with thickly- clustering locks. 
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing ? 



Yes ! he is tall — I think that he is tall ; 

His hair it is dark-brown — yes, almost black — 

Many call it black — you see him ? Does he live f 

ASTROLOGER. 

That pit containeth many beautiful : 

But thy sailor, in his warlike garb, doth lie 

Distinguish'd o'er the multitude of dead ! 

And all the crowd, when the sad cart was emptied, 

Did weep and sob for that young mariner ; 

Such corpse, they thought, should have been 

buried 
Deep in the ocean's heart, and a proud peal 
Of thunder roll'd above his sinking coffin. 

WOMAN (distracted.) 

Must I believe him ? off, off to the pit ! 
One look into that ghastliness, — one plunge : 
None ever loved me but my gentle sailor, 
And his sweet lips are cold — I will leap down. 

[She rushes madly away^ 

A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 

Ay, she intends to look before she leaps ; 
Well — life is life — I would not part with it 
For all the girls in Christendom. Forsooth ! 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Say, will my child recover from the Plague ? 

ASTROLOGER. 

Child ! foolish woman ! now thou hast no child. 
Hast thou not been from home these two long 

hours, 
Here listening unto that which touch'd thee not, 
And left'st thou not thy little dying child. 
Sitting by the fire, upon a madman's knee ? 
Go home ! and ask thy husband for thy child ! 
The fire was burning fierce and wrathfully. 
Its father knew not that the thing he held 
Upon his knee had life — and when it shriek'd, 
Amid the flames, he sat and look'd at it, 
With fiuxed eye-balls, and a stony heart. 



276 



JOHN WILSON 



Unnatural mother ! worse than idiotcy 
To leave a baby m a madman's lap, 
And yet no fetters, from infanticide 
To save his murderous hands. 

WOMAN {rushing away.) 

God ! O God ! 

ASTROLOGER. 

Come forward, thou with that most ghost-like 

face, 
Fit for a winding-sheet I and if those lips 
So blue and quivering still can utter sounds, 
What wouldst thou say ? The motion of thine 

eyes 
Betoken some wild wish within thy heart. 

{A 3Ian comes forward, and lays down money 
hefore the Astrologer. 

MAN, 

I trust my hour is near. I am alone 
In this dark world, and I desire to die. 

ASTROLO&ER. 

Thou shall be kept alive by misery. 

A tree doth live, long after rottenness 

Hath eat away its heart : the sap of life 

Moves through its wither'd rind, and it hves on; 

'Mid the green woods a rueful spectacle 

Of mockery and decay. 



I feel 'tis so. 
Thus have I been since first the plague burst out, 
A term methinks of many hundred years ! 
As if this world were hell, and I condemn' d 
To walk through woe to ail eternity. 
I will do suicide. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Thou canst not, fool ! 
Thou lovest life with all its agonies ; 
Buy poison, and 'twill lie for years untouch' d 
Beneath thy pillow, when thy midnight horrors 
Are at their worst. Coward! thou canst not 
die. 



He sees my soul ; a blast as if from hell 
Drives me back from the grave — I dare not die. 
[He disappears among the crowd, and a young 
and beautiful Lady approaches the Astrologer. 

LADY. 

O man of fate ! my lovely babes are dead ! 
My sweet twin-babes ! and at the very hour 
Thy voice predicted, did my infants die. 
My husband saw them both die in my arms. 
And never shed a tear. Yet did he love them 
Even as the wretch who bore them in her womb. 
He »vill not speak to me, but ever sits 
In horrid silence, with his glazed eyes 
Full on my face, as if he loved me not — 
God ! as if he hated me ! I lean 
My head upon his knees and say my prayers, 
But no kind word, or look, or touch is mine. 
Then will he rise and pace through all the rooms, 
Like to-a troubled ghost, or pale-faced man 
Walking in hie sleep. O tell me ! hath tjie Plague 



E'er these wild symptoms ? Must my husband 

perish 
Without the sense of his immortal soul? 
Or, — bless me forever with the heavenly words, — 
Say he will yet recover, and behold 
His loving v/ife with answering looks of love. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Where are the gold, the diamonds, and the 

pearls. 
That erewhile, in thy days of vanity. 
Did sparkle, star-like, through the hanging clouds 
That shaded thy bright neck, that raven hair ? 
Give them to me ; for many are the poor, 
Nor shalt thou. Lady, ever need again 
This mortal being's frivolous ornaments. 
Give me the gold you promised ; hohest alms 
Add not a moment to our number'd days. 
But the death of open-handed charity 
Is on a bed of down. Hast thou the gold ? 



All that I have is here. My husband gave me 
This simple necklace on my marriage -day. 
Take it ! here is a picture set in gold : 
The picture I may keep. O ! that his face 
Were smihng so serenely beautiful. 
So hke an angel's now ! — sacred ring ! 
Which I did hope to wear within the tomb, 
I give thee to the poor. So may their prayers 
Save him from death for whose deKghtful sake 
With bliss I wore it, and with hope resign. 
Here, take them all, thou steward of the poor; 
Stem as thou art, thou art a holy man ! 
I do believe thou art a holy man. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Lady, thou need'st this wedding-ring no more! 
Death with his lean and bony hand hath loosen'd 
The bauble from thy finger, and even now 
Thy husband is a corpse. O ! might I say 
Thy beauty were immortal ! But a ghost, 
In all the loveliness on earth it wore. 
Walks through the moonlight of the cemetery, 
And I know the shadow of the mortal creature 
Now weeping at my side. 

Enter Frankfort and Wilmot close to the 
J Astrologer. 

FRANKFORT. 

Amelia ! 

LADT. 

Ah me ! whose soft kind voice is that I hear t 

FRANKFORT. 

Frankfort! the playmate of thy infancy, 
The brother of thy womanhood, the friend 
Of thy dear husband, and the godfather 
Of thy sweet twins, heaven shield their inno- 
cence^. 



My babes are with their Saviour, and my husband 
Has gone with them to heaven. Lead, lead me 

hence ! 
For the seer's stern and scowling countenance 
Is more than I can bear. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 



377 



FRANKFORT. 

O grief! to think 
That one so dear to heaven, by Christ beloved 
For a still life of perfect sinlessness, 
Should, in such sad delusion, court the ban 
Of this most savage har, sporting thus 
With the broken spirit of humanity. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Welcome to London, storm-beat mariners ! 

The city is in masquerade to-day, 

And, in good truth, the Plague doth celebrate 

A daily festival, with many a dance 

Fantastic, and unusual melody. 

That may not suit your ears, accustom'd long 

To the glad sea-breeze, and the rousing airs 

Of martial music on your armed decks. 

FRANKFORT {to WiLMOT.) 

Is this some wild enthusiast, whom the times 
Have sent unto the hght, deluding others 
By his own strong delusions, or some fiend. 
Thirsting for gold even in the very grave ? 

WILMOT. 

With what a cruel face he looks at us ! 

FRAMEFOKT. 

If an impostor, in the shadow of death 
Endangering thus thy soul, vile wretch ! come 

down 
From thy tribunal, built upon the fears 
Of agony, lest in thy seat of guile 
The Pest may smite thee ! Lean on me, Amelia ! 

ASTROLOGER. 

Scoff not at God's own delegate, Harry Frank- 
fort! 
What though the burning fever of the west 
Hath spared thy bronzed face and stately form, 
A mightier Power is here ; and he may smile. 
Ere the sun go down, upon thy bloated corpse. 
Not thus the maiden whom her sailor loves 
Despised me and my prophecies. Magdalene, 
In snow-white raiment, like a maid that walk'd 
At the funeral of a maiden, she stood there, 
Even on the very stones beneath your feet. 
And ask'd of me her doom ; but on this earth 
Thy Magdalene's beauty must be seen no more. 

FRANKFORT {io WiLMOT.) 

The maid of whom he speaks lives far remote. 
In her father's cottage, near a silent lake 
Among the hills of Westmoreland, she breathes, 
Happy and well, her own sweet mountain air. 
Methinks I know his face. That harden' d eye 
Gleams through the dimness of my memory, 
I know not when nor where. Amelia, come, 
And I will lead thee home. I hear the crowd 
Saying that thy husband is alive : may heaven 
For many a year preserve you to each other. 
Say, is my mother living ? 



God forgive me, 
As I hope for my friend's forgiveness ! 
I know not if she lives ; for, oh ! this Plague 
Hath spread a universal selfishness. 



And each house in its own calamity 
Stands single, shut from human fellowship 
By sullen misery and heart-withering fear. 

VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 

Look at the sorcerer ! how his countenance 
Is fallen — 'tis distorted horribly ! 
A shadow comes across it, like a squall 
Dark'ning the sea. 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

Even thus I saw a man 
This very morning stricken by the Plague, 
And in three hours he was a ghost. Disperse. 
All ye who prize your lives ! soon will the air 
Be foul with his dead body. Let us away ! 

[The crowd disperse. 

ASTROLOGER. 

God's hand is on me. In my cruel guilt 
I perish. Frankfort, I have never seen 
Magdalene, the maid thou lovest. Look at me : 
Dost not remember Francis Bannerman 
On board the Thunderer ? 

FRANKFORT. 

Pardon to thy soul! 
Thou mad abuser of the gifts of heaven. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Oh ! I am sick to death : my soul hath sunk 
At once into despair. 



What dreadful groans ! — 

fatal is the blast of misery. 

When it hath forced its way into the soul 
Of harden' d cruelty ! As when a storm 
Hath burst the gates of a thick-ribbed hold, 
And all its gloomy dungeons, in one moment, 
Are roaring hke a hundred cataracts. 

ASTROLOGER. 

1 have shed blood. Roll, roll, ye mountain waves, 
Above that merciless ghost that walks the sea 
After our ship for ever ! Shut thine eyes, 
Those glaring, blood-shot, those avenging eyes. 
And T will bear to feel thy skeleton-arms 
Twined round my heart, so that those eyes be 

shut! 
A ghost's wild eyes, that nothing can behold 
But the frighten'd aspect of its murderer ! 
Unconscious they of ocean, air and Heaven, 
But fix'd eternally, like hideous stars. 
On a shrieking soul whom guilt hath doom'd to 

Hell! 

FRANKFORT {tO WiLMOT.) 

The murderer is raving of his crime. 

ASTROLOGER. 

Ha ! ha ! 'tis set within the ebb of flood 
Fifty feet high ; and the iron'd criminal 
With a frantic face stands dumb upon the scaflfold. 
The priest is singing psalms ! — ^Curst be the eyes 
That see such idle show — 'tis all gone by ! 
I fear not Hell, if that eternal Shape 



278 



JO'HN WILSON 



Meet me not there ! Pray, pray not for me, 

Frankfort, 
For I am deliver'd over to despair, 
And holy words are nought but mockery 
To him who knows tliat he must dwell for ever 
In regions darken'd by the wrath of God. 

LADY. 

Let us leave this horrid scene ! 

ASTROLOGER. 

O might I hear 
That sweet voice breathing of forgiveness ! 
Hush ! hush ! a voice once breathed upon this earth 
That would have pleaded not in vain to Heaven, 
Even for a fiend hke me. Thou art in Heaven, 
And knowest all thy husband's wickedness ; 
So hide thy pitying eyes, and let me sink 
Without thy intercession to the depths 
Of unimagined woe ! — Christ I I die. 

FRANKFOKT. 

Most miserable end ! an evil man 
Prostrating by a savage eloquence 
The spirits of the wretched — so that he 
Might riot on the bare necessities 
Of man's expiring nature — on the spoil 
Of the unburied dead ! Most atheist-like ! 
I know not how I can implore the grace 
Of God unto thy soul ! 

ASTROLOGER. 

Eternal doom ! 
The realms of Hell are gleaming fiery bright. 
What ghastly faces ! — Christ have mercy on me ! 



Wilt thou not lead me away, for I am blind ! 
O Frankfort, come with me — the Plague hath 

struck 
My husband into madness — and I fear him ! 
God ! I fear the man whom I do love ! 

FRANKFORT. 

All — all are wretched — guilty — dead or dying ; 

And all the wild and direful images 

That crowd, and wail, and blacken round my soul, 

Have reconciled me to the misery 

Sent from my mother's grave. An hour of respite 

Is granted me while I conduct thee home : 

Then will I seek that grave, and, mid the tumult 

Of this perturbed city, sit and listen 

To a voice that in my noiseless memory 

Sings like an angel. 

LADY. 

She is yet alive ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Thy voice is like the voice of Hope — Sweet friend. 
Be cheer'd, nor tremble so — for God is with us. 



SCENE III. 

A Churchyard. Two Females in mourning dresses 

sitting on a Tomh-stone. 

FIRST LADY. 

The door of the Cathedral is left open. 
Perhaps some one within is at the altar 



Oflfering up thanks, or supplicating heaven 
To save a husband dying of the Plague. 
If so, I join a widow's prayer to hers, 
Sitting on my husband's grave. 

SECOND LADY. 

One moment hufih! 
Methought I heard a footstep in the church. 
As of one walking softly up the chancel. 
List — ^list ! I am not dreaming of a strain 
Of heavenly music ? 'Tis a hymn of praise. 

[A voice is heard singing in the Cathedral, 

FIRST LADY. 

A voice so heavenly sweet I once did hear 

Singing at night close to my bed, when I 

Was beyond hope recovering from the Plague. 

That voice hymn'd in my sleep, and was a dream 

Framed by my soul returning into life, 

A strain that murmur'd from another world. 

But this is earthly music : she must have 

An angel's face who through the echoing aisle 

So like an angel sings. 

SECOND LADY. 

I know that voice! 
Last Sabbath evening, sitting on this stone, 
And thinking who it was that lay below it, 
I heard that very music faint and far, 
Deaden'd almost into silence by the weight 
Of those thick walls. I listen'd with my heart 
That I might hear the dirge-hke air again. 
But it did rise no more, and I believed 
'Twas some sweet fancy of my sorrowful soul, 
Or wandering breath of evening through the 

pillars 
Of the Cathedral sighing wildly by. 

FIRST LADY. 

And saw' St thou no one ? 

SECOND LADY. 

Yes : I gently stole 
Into the solemn twilight of the church. 
And looking towards the altar, there I saw 
A white-robed Being on her knees. At first 
I felt such awe as I had seen a spirit, 
When, rising from the attitude of prayer, 
The vision softly ghded down the steps, 
And then her eyes met mine. But such sweet 

eyes, 
So fill'd with human sadness, yet so bright 
Even through their tears with a celestial joy. 
Ne'er shone before on earth. Even such me ■ 

thought 
The Virgin- Mother's holy countenance, 
When, turning from her Son upon the cross, 
A gleam of heavenly comfort cheer'd the darkness 
Of her disconsolate soul ! At once I knew 
That I was looking on the Maid divine 
Whom the sad city bless' d — whose form arises 
Beside the bed of death by all deserted, 
And to the dim eyes of the dying man 
Appears an angel sent from pitying heaven 
To bid him part in peace. I could have dropt 
Down on my knees and worshipp'd her, but 

silent 
As a gleam of light the creature glided by me, 
And ere my soul recover'd she was gone. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



379 



FIRST LADY. 

How weak and low does virtue such as hers 
Make us poor beings feel i 

SECOND LADY. 

Yet she is one 
Of frail and erring mortals, and she knew not 
In other days, to what a lofty pitch 
Her gentle soul could soar. For I have heard 
She was an only child, and in the light 
Of her fond parents' love was fostered, 
Like a flower that blooms best shelter' d in the 

house, 
And only placed beneath the open air 
In hours of sunshine. 

FIRST LADY. 

Could we now behold 
The glorious Being ? 

SECOND LADY. 

No ; this hour is sacred : 
We must not interrupt her. The dew falls 
Heavy and chill, and thou art scarce recover'd 
From that long sickness — Let me kiss thee thus. 
Thou cold wet stone, — thou loveliest, saddest 

name. 
Ever engraven on a monument. 

[The scene changes to the interior of the 
Cathedral, Magdalene discovered on 
her knees at the altar. 

ma&dalene. 

Father of mercies ! may I lift mine eyes 

From the holy ground, that I have vi^et with tears, 

Unto the silence of the moonhght heavens 

That shine above me with a smile of love, 

Forgiveness; and compassion. There Thou art ! 

Enthroned in glory and omnipotence ! 

Yet from thy dwelling 'mid the eternal stars. 

Encircled by the hymning seraphim, 

Thou dost look down upon our mortal earth, 

And seest this weeping creature on her knees. 

And hear'st the beatings of her lonely heart. 

If, in my days of sinless infancy. 

My innocence found favour in thy sight ; 

If in my youth, — and yet I am but young, — 

I strove to walk according to thy will. 

And reverenced my Bible, and did weep, 

Thinking of him who died upon the cross ; 

If, in their old age, I did strive to make 

My parents happy, and received at last 

Their benediction on the bed of death — 

Oh ! let me walk the waves of this wild world 

Through faith unsinking ; — stretch thy saving 

hand 
To a lone castaway upon the sea. 
Who hopes no resting-place except in heaven. 
And oh ! this holy calm — this peace profovmd, 
That sky so glorious in infinitude, — 
That countless host of softly -burning stars. 
And all that floating universe of light, 
Lift up my spirit far above the grave, 
And tell me that my prayers are heard in Heaven. 
I feel th' Omnipotent is Merciful! 

[A voice exclaims from an unseen Person. 
were my name rernember'd in thy prayers ! 



MA&DALENE (rising from her knees.) 
Did some one speak ? 

VOICE. 

A sinful wretch implores 
That thou wilt stand between him and the wrath 
Of an offended God. 

MAGDALENE. 

Come to the altar. 
[A Man advances from behind a pillar, and 
kneels down at the altar. 

STRANGER. 

I fear I cannot pray. My wicked heart, 
Long unaccustom'd to these bended knees, 
Feels not the worship that my limbs would offer ; 
— My lot is cast in hell. 

MAGDALENE. 

Repentance finds 
The blackest gulf in the wild soul of sin, 
And calms the tumult there, even as our Lord 
With holy hand did hush the howling sea, 

STRANGER. 

Lady ! I am too near thy blessed side ; 
The breath of such a saint ought not to fall 
Into the hard heart of a murderer. 

MAGDALENE. 

Hast thou come here to murder me ? 



SGffeR. 



Behold 



This dagger. 



MAGDALENE. 

Then the will of God be done ! 

STRANGER. 

Rather than hurt one of those loveliest hairs 
That, braided round thy pale, thy fearless brow, 
Do make thee seem an Angel or a Spirit 
At night come down from heaven, would I for ever 
Live in the dark corruption of the grave. 

MAGDALENE. 

My heart is beating — but I fear thee not — 
Thou wilt not murder me ? 

STRANGER. 

What need' St thou fear! 
Kneeling in those white robes, so like a Spirit, 
With face too beautiful for tears to stain, 
Eyes meekly raised to heaven, and snow-white 

hands 
Devoutly folded o'er a breast that moves 

In silent adoration what hast thou 

To fear from man or fiend ? O rise not up ! 
So Angel-hke thou seem'st upon thy knees, 
Even I can hope, while thou art at thy prayera. 

MAGDALENE. 

If thou earnest hither to unload thy soul, 
Kneel down. 

STRANGER. 

I hither came to murder thee. 

With silent foot I traced thee to this church, 



S80 



JOHN WILSON. 



And there, beyond that pillar, took my stand. 

That I might rush upon thee at the altar, 

And kill thee at thy prayers. I grasp' d the knife — 

When suddenly thy melancholy voice 

Began that low wild hymn ! — I could not move ; 

The holy music made thee seem immortal ! 

And when I dared to look towards thy face, 

The moonhght fell upon it, and I saw 

A smile of such majestic innocence, 

That long-lost pity to my soul return'd, 

And I knelt down and wept. 

MAGDALENE. 

What made thee think 
Of killing one who never injured thee ? 

STKANGEK. 

Th' accursed love of gold. 

MAGDALENE. 

Hath Poverty 
Blinded thy soul, and driven thee forth a prey 
To Sin, who loves the gaunt and hollow cheeks 
Of miserable men ? Perhaps a cell 
Holds thy sick wife 



No ! I have sold my soul 
Unto the Evil One, nor even canst Thou, 
With all the music of that heavenly voice, 
Charm the stern ear of hell. 

MAGDALENE. 

Alas ! poor wretch ! 
What shakes thee so ? 

STRANGER. 

'Mid all the ghastly shrieking, 
Black sullen dumbness, and wild-staring frenzy. 
Pain madly leaping out of hfe, or fetter'd 
By burning irons to its house of clay, 
Where think you Satan drove me ? To the haunts 
Of riot, lust, and reckless blasphemy. 
In spite of that eternal passing-bell, 
And all the ghosts that hourly flock' d in troops 
Unto the satiated grave, insane 
With drunken guilt, I mock'd my Saviour's name 
With hideous mummery, and the holy book 
In scornful fury trampled, rent, and burn'd. 
Oh ! ours were dreadful orgies ! — At still mid- 
night 
We sallied out, in mimic grave-clothes clad. 
Aping the dead, and in some church-yard danced 
A dance that ofttimes had a mortal close. 
Then would we lay a living body out, 
As h had been a corpse, and bear it slowly 
With what at distance seem'd a holy dirge. 
Through silent streets and squares unto its rest. 
One quaintly apparell'd like a surpUced priest 
Led the procession, joining in the song; — 
A jestful song, most brutal and obscene. 
Shameful to man, his Saviour, and his God. 
Or in a hearse we sat, which one did drive 
In masquerade habiliments of death ; 
And in that ghastly chariot whirl'd along. 
With oaths, and songs, and shouts, and peals of 

laughter, 
Till sometimes that most devilish merriment 



Chill'd our own souls with horror, and we stared 
Upon each other all at once struck dumb. 

MAGDALENE. 

Madness ! 'twas madness all, 

STRANGER. 

Oh! that it were! 
But, lady ! were we mad when we partook 
Of what we call'd a sacrament ? 

MAGDALENE. 

Hush! hush'— 

STRANGER. 

Yes— I will utter it — we brake the bread, 
And wine pour'd out, and jesting ate and drank 
Perdition to our souls. 

MAGDALENE. 

And women too. 
Did they blaspheme their Saviour ? 

STRANGER. 

Ay ! there sat 
Round that unhallow'd table beautiful creatures, 
Who seem'd to feel a fiend-hke happiness 
In tempting us wild wretches to blaspheme. 
Sweet voices had they, though of broken tones ; 
Their faces fair, though waxing suddenly 
Whiter than ashes ; smiles were in their eyes. 
Though often in their mirth they upwards look'd, 
And wept ; nor, when they tore distractedly 
The garments from their bosoms, could our soula 
Sustain the beauty heaving in our sight 
With grief, remorse, despair, and agony. 
We knew that we were lost, yet would we pluck 
The flowers that bloom'd upon the crater's edge, 
Nor fear'd the yawning gulf. 

MAGDALENE. 

Why art thou here ? 

STRANGER. 

Riot hath made us miserably poor. 
And gold we needs must have. I heard a whis- 
per 
Tempting me to murder, and thy very name 
Distinctly syllabled. In vain I strove 
Against the Tempter — bent was I on blood ! 
But here I stand in hopeless penitence. 
Nor even implore thy prayers — my doom is 
seal'd. 

[He flings himself down before the altar. 

MAGDALENE. 

Poor wretch ! I leave thee to the grace of God. — 
Ah me ! how calmly and serenely smile 
Those pictured saints upon the holy wall, 
Tinged by that sudden moonlight 1 That meek 

face 
How hke my mother's ? So she wore her veil : 
Even so her braided hair ! — Ye blessed spirits. 
Look down upon your daughter in her trouble, 
For I am sick at heart. The moonlight dies — 
I feel afraid of darkness. Wretched man. 
Hast thou found comfort? Groans his sole 

reply. — 
I must away to that sad Funeral , 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



281 



SCENE IV. 

The street. A long table covered with glasses. — A 
party of Young Men and Women carousing. 

YOUN& MAN. 

I rise to give, most noble President, 
The memory of a man well known to all, 
Who by keen jest, and merry anecdote, 
Sharp repartee, and humorous remark 
Most biting in its solemn gravity, 
Much cheer'd our out-door table, and dispell'd 
The fogs which this rude visitor the Plague 
Oft breathed across the brightest intellect. 
But two days past, our ready laughter chased 
His various stories ; and it cannot be 
That we have in our gamesome revelries 
Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair stands 
Empty at your right hand — as if expecting 
That jovial wassailer — but he is gone 
Into cold narrow quarters. Well, I deem 
The grave did never silence with its dust 
A tongue more eloquent; but since 'tis so, 
And store of boon companions yet survive, 
There is no reason to be sorrowful ; 
Therefore let us drink unto his memory 
With acclamation, and a merry peal 
Such as in life he loved. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

' Tis the first death 
Hath been amongst us, therefore let us drink 
His memory in silence. 

Y0UN& MAN. 

Be it so. 
[They all rise, and drink their glasses in silence. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Sweet Mary Gray ! thou hast a silver voice. 
And wildly to thy native melodies 
Can tune its flute-like breath— sing us a song, 
And let it be, even 'mid our merriment. 
Most sad, most slow, that when its music dies, 
We may address ourselves to revelry. 
More passionate from the calm, as men leap up 
To this world's business from some heavenly 
dream. 

MARY GRAY'S SONG. 

I walk'd by mysel' ower the sweet braes o' 
Yarrow, 
When the earth wi' the gowan o' July was 
drest ; 
But the sang o' the bonny burn sounded hke 
sorrow, 
Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer's 
nest. 

I look'd through the hft o' the blue smiling 
morning, 
But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I see 
On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, 
Hanging white ower the green o' its sheltering 
tree. 



By the outside I ken'd that the inn was forsaken, 
That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the 
floor ; 
— loud craw'd the cock whare was nana to 
awaken, 
And the wild-raven croak'd on the seat by the 
door! 

Sic silence — sic lonesomeness, oh, were bevril- 
dering ! 
I heard nae lass singing when herding her 
sheep ; 
I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children 
Dancing on to the school-house just waken'd 
frae sleep. 

I pass'd by the school-house— when strangers 
were coming, 
Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all 
ahve ; 
Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet 
humming, 
For a night o' dark vapour can silence the 
hive. 

I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing 
Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin 
and din ; 
But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, 
And nae laughing rose loud through the roar 
of the linn. 

I gaed into a small town — when sick o' my roam- 
ing- 
Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor and 
flute; 
'Twas the hour loved by Labour, the saft smiling 
gloaming, 
Yet the green round the Cross-stane was 
empty and mute. 

To the yellow-flower' d meadow, and scant rigs 
o' tillage, 
The sheep a' neglected had come frae the 
glen; 
The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village; 
And the swallow had flown to the dwelhngs o' 
men ! 

— Sweet Denholm ! not thus, when I lived in thy 
bosom. 
Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the 
week ; 
Then nane was sae weary that love would nae 
rouse him. 
And Grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his 
cheek. 

Sic thoughts wet my een— as the moonshine was 
beaming 
On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and 
white ; 
The wan ghastly hght on the dial was streaming. 
But the still finger tauld not the hour of the 
night. 

The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and 
weeping, 
I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; 



36 



282 



JOHN WILSON. 



Ower a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, 
And Heaven in beauty came down on the 
earth. 

The morning smiled on — but nae kirk-bell was 
ringing, 
Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the 
hill; 
The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was 
singing. 
And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae 
shrill. 

I look'd ower the quiet o' Death's empty dwell- 
ing, 
The lav'rock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful 
scene, 
And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were 
swelling 
Ower the kirk-yard o' Denholm, last simmer 
sae green. 

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither ; 

The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed ; 
At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither ; 

At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay 
dead. 

Oh ! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is 
over, 
And birds should be glintmg o'er forest and 
lea, 
When the lint- white and mavis the yellow leaves 
cover. 
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his 
tree. 

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices. 
And laughs back to heaven with gratitude 
bright. 
To hearken ! and naewhere hear sweet human 
voices ! 
When man's soul is dark in the season of 
light ! 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

We thank thee, sweet one ! for thy mournful 

song. 
It seems, in the olden time, this very Plague 
Visited thy hills and valleys, and the voice 
Of lamentation wail'd along the streams 
That now float on through their wild paradise, 
Murmuring their songs of joy. All that survive 
In memory of that melancholy year, 
When died so many brave and beautiful, 
Are some sweet mournful airs, some shepherd's 

lay 
Most touching in simplicity, and none 
Fitter to make one sad amid his mirth 
Than the tune yet faintly singing through our 

souls. 

MART GRAT. 

! that I ne'er had sung it but at home 
Unto my aged parents ! to whose ear 
Their Mary's tones were always musical. 

1 hear my own self singing o'er the moor, 
Beside my native cottage, — most unlike 



The voice which Edward Walsingham has 

praised. 
It is the angel- voice of innocence. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

I thought this cant were out of fashion now. 
But it is well ; there are some simple souls. 
Even yet, who melt at a frail maiden's tears, 
And give her credit for sincerity. 
She thinks her eyes quite killing while she 

weeps. 
Thought she as well of smiles, her lips would pout 
With a perpetual simper. Walsingham 
Hath praised these crying beauties of the north, 
So whimpering is the fashion. How I hate 
The dim dull yellow of that Scottish hair ! 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Hush ! hush ! — is that the sound of wheels I 
hear ? 
[The Dead-cart passes by, driven by a Negro, 
Ha! dost thou faint, Louisa ! one had thought 
That rattling tongue bespoke a mannish heart. 
But so it ever is. The violent 
Are weaker than the mild, and abject fear 
Dwells in the heart of passion. Mary Gray, 
Throw water in her face. She now revives. 

MARY GRAY. 

sister of my sorrow and my shame ! 

Lean on my bosom. Sick must be your heart 
After a fainting-fit so like to death. 

LOUISA {recovering.) 

1 saw a horrid demon in my dream ! 
With sable visage and white-glaring eyes, 
He beckon' d on me to ascend a cart 

Fill'd with dead bodies, muttering all the while 
An unknown language of most dreadful sounds. 
What matters it? I see it was a dream. 
— Pray, did the dead-cart pass? 

TOtTNG MAN. 

Come, brighten \xp, 
Louisa! Though this street be all our own, 
A silent street that we from death have rented. 
Where we may hold our orgies undisturb'd. 
You know those rumbling wheels are privileged, 
And we must bide the nuisance. Walsingham, 
To put an end to bickering, and these fits 
Of fainting that proceed from female vapours. 
Give us a song ;— a free and gladsome song ; 
None of those Scottish ditties framed of sighs, 
But a true Enghsh Bacchanalian song. 
By toper chaunted o'er the flowing bowl. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

I have none such ; but I will sing a song 
Upon the Plague. I made the words last night, 
After we parted : a strange rhyming-fit 
Fell on me ; 'twas the first time in my life. 
But you shall have it, though my vile crack' d 

voice 
Won't mend the matter much. 

MANY VOICES. 

A song on the Plague ! 
A song on the Plague! Let's have it! bravo 1 
bravo ! 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE 



283 



SONG. 
Two navies meet upon the waves 
That round them yawn like op'ning graves; 
The battle rages ; seamen fall, 
And overboard go one and all ! 
The wounded with the dead are gone ; 
But Ocean drowns each frantic groan, 
And, at each plunge into the flood, 
Grimly the billow laughs with blood. 
— Then, what although our Plague destroy 
Seaman and landman, woman, boy ? 
When the pillow rests beneath the head, 
Like sleep he comes, and strikes us dead. 
What though into yon Pit we go, 
Descending fast, as flakes of snow ? 
What matters body without breath ? 
No groan disturbs that hold of death. 



Then, leaning on this snow-white breast, 
I sing the praises of the Pest ! 
If me thou would' st this night destroy. 
Come, smite me in the arms of Joy. 

Two armies meet upon the hill ; 
They part, and all again is still. 
No ! thrice ten thousand men are lying. 
Of cold, and thirst, and hunger dying. 
While the wounded soldier rests his head 
About to die upon the dead, 
What shrieks salute yon dawning light ? 
'Tis Fire that comes to aid the Fight! 
— All whom our Plague destroys by day. 
His chariot drives by night away ; 
And sometimes o'er a churchyard wall 
His banner hangs, a sable pall ! 
Where in the Ught by Hecate shed 
With grisly smile he counts the dead, 
And piles them up a trophy high 
In honour of his victory. 

Then, leaning, etc. 

King of the aisle ! and churchyard cell '. 
Thy regal robes become thee well. 
With yellow spots, hke lurid stars 
Prophetic of throne-shattering wars, 
Bespangled is its night-like gloom. 
As it sweeps the cold damp from the tomb. 
Thy hand doth grasp no needless dart. 
One finger- touch benumbs the heart. 
If thy stubborn victim will not die. 
Thou roll'st around thy bloodshot eye, 
And Madness leaping in his chain 
With giant buflfet smites the brain, 
Or Idiotcy with drivelling laugh 
Holds out her strong-drugg'd bowl to quaff, 
And down the drunken wretch doth lie 
Unsheeted in the cemetery. 

Then, leaning, etc. 

Thou I Spirit of the burning breath, 
Alone deservest the name of Death ! 
Hide, Fever ! hide thy scarlet brow; 
Nine days thou linger' st o'er thy blow. 
Fill the leech bring water from the spring, 
And scare thee off on drenched wing. 
Consumption ! waste away at will ! 
In warmer climes thou fail'st to kill. 



And rosy Health is laughing loud 
As oflf thou steal' si with empty shroud! 
Ha ! blundering Palsy ! thou art drill ! 
But half the man is living still ; 
One arm, one leg, one cheek, one side 
In antic guise thy wrath deride. 
But who may 'gainst thy power rebel, 
King of the aisle 1 and churchyard cell I 
Then, leaning, etc. 

To Thee, O Plague ! I pour my song, 

Since thou art come I wish thee long ! 

Thou strikest the lavryer 'mid his lies, 

The priest 'mid his hypocrisies. 

The miser sickens at his hoard. 

And the gold leaps to its rightful lord. 

The husband, now no longer tied, 

May wed a new and blushing bride, 

And many a widow slyly weeps 

O'er the grave where her old dotard sleeps, 

While love shines through her moisten'd eye 

On yon tall stripling gliding by. 

'Tis ours who bloom in vernal years 

To dry the love-sick maiden's tears. 

Who turning from the relics cold, 

In a new swain forgets the old. 

Then, leaning, etc. 

Enter an old grey-headed Priest. 



impious table ! spread by impious hands ! 
Mocking with feast and song and revelry 
The silent air of death that hangs above it, 
A canopy more dismal than the Pall I 
Amid the churchyard darkness as I stood 
Beside a dire interment, circled round 

By the white ghastly faces of despair, 

That hideous merriment disturb'd the grave. 

And with a sacrilegious violence 

Shook down the crumbling earth upon the bodiea 

Of the unsheeted dead. But that the prayers 

Of holy age and female piety 

Did sanctify that wide and common grave, 

1 could have thought that hell's exulting fiends 
With shouts of devilish laughter dragg'd away 
Some harden'd atheist's soul unto perdition. 

SEVERAL VOICES. 

How well he talks of hell ! Go on, old boy ! 
The devil pays his tithes — yet he abuses him. 



Cease, I conjure you, by the blessed blood 
Of Him who died for us upon the Cross, 
These most unnatural orgies. As ye hope 
To meet in heaven the souls of them ye loved, 
Destroy'd so mournfully before your eyes, 
Unto your homes depart. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Our homes are dull — 
And youth loves mirth. 

PRIEST. 

O , Edward Walsingham ! 
Art thou that groaning pale-faced man of tears 
Who three weeks since knelt by thy mother's 
corpse, 



284 



JOHN WILSON, 



And kiss'd the solder'd coffin, and leapt down 
With rage-like grief into the burial vault, 
Crying upon its stone to cover thee 
From this dim darken' d world ? Would she not 

weep. 
Weep even in heaven, could she behold her son 
Presiding o'er unholy revellers, 
And tuning that sweet voice to frantic songs 
That should ascend unto the throne of grace 
'Mid sob-broken words of prayer ! 

yOUNG MAN. 

Why ! we can pray 
Without a priest — pray long and fervently 
Over the brimming bowl. -Hand him a glass. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Treat his grey hairs with reverence. 

PRIEST. 

Wretched boy ! 
This while head must not sue to thee in vain ! 
Come with the guardian of thy infancy. 
And by the hymns and psalms of holy men 
Lamenting for their sins, w e will assuage 
This fearful mirth akin to agony, 
And in its stead, serene as the hush'd face 
Of thy dear sainted parent, kindle hope 
And heavenly resignation. Come with me. 

YOUJTG MAN. 

They have a design against the hundredth Psalm. 
Oh ! Walsingham will murder cruelly 
" All people that on earth do dwell." 
Suppose we sing it here — I know the drawl. 

MASTER OF REVELS (silencing him and addressing 
the Priest.) 

Why camest thou here to disturb me thus ? 

I may not, must not go ! Here am I held 

By hopelessness in dark futurity, 

By dire remembrance of the past, — by hatred 

And deep contempt of my own worthless self, — 

By fear and horror of the hfelessness 

That reigns throughout my dwelling, — by the new 

And frantic love of loud-tongued revelry, — 

By the blest poison mantling in this bowl, — 

And, help me Heaven ! by the soft balmy kisses 

Of this lost creature, lost, but beautiful 

Even in her sin ; nor could my mother's ghost 

Frighten me from this fair bosom. 'Tis too late ! 

I hear thy warning voice — I know it strives 

To save me firom perdition, body and soul. 

Beloved old man, go thy way in peace, 

But curst be these feet if they do follow thee. 

SEVERAL VOICES. 

Bravo ! bravissimo ! Our noble president I 
Done with that sermonizing — off— off — off! 

PRIEST. 

Matilda's sainted spirit calls on thee 1 

MASTER OF REVELS (starting distractedly from his 

seat.) 

Didst thou not swear, with thy pale wither'd hands 
Lifted to Heaven, to let that doleful name 
Lie silent in the tomb for evermore ? 
O that a wall of darkness hid this sight 



From her immortal eyes ! She, my betrothed,' 
Once thought my spirit lofty, pure, and free, 
And on my bosom felt herself in Heaven. 
What am I now ? (looking up.)—0 holy child of 

hght, 
I see thee sitting where my fallen nature 
Can never hope to soar ! 

FEMALE VOICE. 

The fit is on hiix! 
Fool ! thus to rave about a buried wife ! 
See ! how his eyes are fix'd. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Most glorious star ! 
Thou art the spirit of that bright Innocent ! 
And there thou shinest with upbraiding beauty 
On him whose soul hath thrown at last away 
Not the hope only, but the wish of Heaven. 



Come, Walsingham ! 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

O holy father ! go. 
For mercy's sake, leave me to my despair. 

PRIEST. 

Heaven pity my dear son. Farewell ! farewell! 
[The Priest walks mournfully away. 

YOUNG MAN. 

Sing him another song. See how he turns 
His eyes from yon far Heaven to Mary's bosom ! 
The man's in love. Ho ! Walsingham ! what 
cheer ? 

MASTER OF REVELS (angrily.) 
I hate that Irish slang — it grates my soul. 

MARY GRAY. 

Walsingham ! I fear to touch thy breast 
Where one so pure has lain ! Yet turn thine eyes 
Towards me, a sinful creature, that thy soul 
May lose the sight of that celestial phantom 
Whose beauty is a torment. List to me. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Here, Mary ! with a calm deliberate soul 

1 swear to love thee ! with such love, sweet girl' 
As a man sunk in utter wretchedness 

May cherish for a daughter of despair. 

maudlin fools ! who preach of Chastity, 
And call her Queen of Virtues ! In the breast 
Even of this prostitute, (why should I fear 
That word of three unmeaning syllables ?) 

In spite of all that's whisper'd from the grave, 

1 now will seek, and seeking I will find 
The open-eyed sleep of troubled happiness. 

MABY GRAY. 

All names are one to me. I often love 
The imprecations of brutaUty, 
Because, with vain contrition for my sins, 
I feel that I deserve them all. But thou 
Killest me with thy pitying gentleness, 
Wasting sweet looks, and words of amity 
On a polluted creature drench'd in shame. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 



285 



YOUNG MAN. 

Had yon old dotard, with his surplice on, 
Emblem of his pretended sanctity, 
And sanctimonious visage common to all 
The hypocritic brotherhood of priests, 
Staid but a little longer, I had read him 
A lecture on the Christian's outward creed. 
This is rare season for the jugglery 
Of these church-mountebanks ! 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Fool ! hold thy peace ! 

Thou in thy heart hast said there is no God, 

Yet. knowest thyself — a har. 

YOUNG- MAN {starting up furiously.) 
On his knees, 
Upon his knees must Edward Walsingham 
Implore forgiveness for these villanous words, 
Or through his heart this sword will find a pass- 
age, 
Even swifter than the Plague 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Upon my knees ! 
Fierce gladiator ! dost thou think to daunt me 
By that red rapier reeking with the blood 
Of nerveless, hot-brain'd, inexperienced boys. 
Whom thou hast murder'd? Stand upon thy 

guard, 
And see if all the skill of fencing France, 
Or thy Italian practice, cowardly bravo ! 
Can ward this flash of hghtning from thine eyes. 

Enter Frankfort and Wilmot, who rush be- 
tween them. 

FRANKFORT. 

Madmen ! put up your swords. What, Walsing- 
ham ! 
The Captain of the Ocean Queen, engaged 
In brawls on shore. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Ay ! 'tis a foolish quarrel, 
And may have fooUsh ending : But he spake 
With rude Ucentious tongue irreverently 
Of a white head that since my mother's death 
Hath been to me the holiest thing on earth : 
And woe to its blasphemer ! 

YOUNG MAN {wMs'perS.) 

St. Martin's Fields, 
At twelve o'clock. There is good moonhght for 

us. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

'Tis a right hour. I'll meet thee at the elm tree, 
Named from the royal deer. At twelve o'clock ! 
[The party breaks up. 
What news from sea ? 

FRANKFORT. 

All well. 

MASTER OF REVELS. 

Why look so pale ! 
Before an action fearless men look pale, 



And fling away their smiles ; but, once engaged, 
They scoff at death with gleesome mockery. 
No deck was e'er so strew'd with hideous 

slaughter, 
As the wide iloor of this Plague- conquer' d city, 
Therefore look up — our colours still are flying — ■ 
Will Frankfort strike them ? 

FRANKFORT. 

Yes ! I am a coward - 
I have for hours been wandering through this 

city. 
And now I stand within a little furlong 
Of the house that was my mother's. I have hn- 

ger'd 
In places quite remote — have traversed streets 
That led not thither — yea I I have turn'd my 

face 
Away from the imaged dwelling of my parent, 
Glad to put off the moment that might tell me 
That which with agony I long to know. 
Besides, mayhap, I am intruding here. 
Good evening, Walsingham — to you, fair dames, 
Farewell. — Come, Wilmot, o'er yon roof I see 
The vane upon the house-top, where — 



WALSINGHAM. 



On Thursday was alive. 



Your n\otiier 



FRANKFORT. 



God bless thee, Walsingham ! 
On Thursday — and 'tis yet but Sabbath-night. 
She must be hvuig still ! Said they that the 

Plague 
Destroys so suddenly ? In three small hours ? 
Three days and nights contain a frightful sum 
Of fatal hours. The Plague doth ask but three- 
She may be sick — 'dead — buried — and forgotten. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The street opposite a house adjoining Aldgate 
church-yard. 

FRANKFORT. 

Hush, Wilmot ! while I say one Uttle prayer. 
There stands the house — I see it in my soul, 
Though yet mine eyes dare not to look on it. 
— Let me lean on thee — hear'st thou aught with- 
in? 



It is the hour of rest : I nothing hear ; 
But the house, methinks, is slumbering happuy 
In the clear moonlight. 'Tis a lovely night, 
Beauty without these walls, and peace within. 

FRANKFORT. 

Wears it the look of a deserted dwelling ? 

WILMOT. 

Its silence seems of sleep and not of death. 

FRANKFORT. 

Wilmot • sure the moon shines ruefully, 



286 



JOHN WILSON, 



On these black windows faintly tinged with 

light! 
I see no difference between these dark walls, 
And yonder tomb -stones — they both speak of 

death. 



Be comforted. 

FRANKFORT. 

List ! Wilmot ! hear'st thou aught * 
Methinks it was my mother's voice within 
Singing a dirge-like hymn. Hear'st thou a 
voice ? 

WltMOT. 

Grief mocks itself with fancied sounds like these ; 
There was no voice. 

FRANKFORT. 

O let it breathe again, 
And all the world will seem alive to me. 
— God ! the silence of this lifeless street. 
Where all the human dwellings stand like tombs 
Empty or iill'd with corpses, seems collected 
Round this one house, whose shadowy ghmraer- 

ing walls 
Bear down my soul in utter hopelessness. 
Oh ! 'tis a sad, sad wreck. Mark how the dust 
Lies on th' untrodden steps'! and yet I see 
Footprints of one ascending. As I live, 
I hear a footstep in my mother's chamber. 
A hght ! a light ! see where a light is moving 
As from an apparition, through the house. 

[The door opens, and the Priest who appeared 
in the first Act comes into the street. 

FRANKFORT. 

Pale death is in his troubled countenance. 

The house is falling from me, and the street 

Is sinking down — down — down — I faint — Support 



ne Priest (to Wilmot while they support Frank- 
fort.) 

At a sad hour the sailor hath return' d : 
Would he were yet at sea ! 

FRANKFORT. 

I hear thy voice, 
And know that I indeed am motherless. 



Blessed are they who lived in the Lord, 
And in the Lord did die. 

FRANKFORT. 

Amen — amen ! 
Hath little WiUiam gone with her to Heaven ! 

PRIEST. 

They died three hours apart. Methought I saw 
The angelical mother smiling up the sky 
With that deUghtful infant on her breast. 
More like a spirit that had come from Heaven 
To waft away the child to Paradise, 
Than a human soul departing from this earth. 

FRANKFORT. 

Soaring in beauty to immortal bliss! 



But away from him who held them in his heart, 
An everlasting presence of delight 
'Mid the dim dreary sea. 



Weep, weep, my son, 
I wish to see thee weep. 

FRANKFORT. 

0, why should tears 
Be shed unto the blest and beautiful 
By us poor dwellers in the woeful shades 
Of mortal being ? 



Thou art deadly pale ! 
Be not ashamed to weep upon my breast. 
I have seen thee weeping for that sweet child's 

sake, 
When haply he was dancing in his mirth — 

FRANKFORT. 

Dancing in his mirth ! The lovely child is dead. 
All, all his innocent thoughts like rose-leaves 

scatter'd, 
And his glad childhood nothing but a dream ! 
I feel his last kiss yet — [Weeping. 

WILMOT 

I also weep, 
For I too am his brother, though his face 
Was only vision'd sweetly in my soul 
With its small features — 

FRANKFORT. 

Sudden happiness 
Comes o'er my grief! Time and this world ap- 
pear 
Mere shadows, and I feel as if I stood 
Close to my mother's side ! — mournful weak- 
ness! 
The realms of Heaven are stretching far away ; 
My soul is fetter' d to the earth ; the grave 
Cries with a voice that may not be gainsay'd, 
And mortal life appears eternity 
Since she I loved has perish'd. 



Some, my son, 
Would bid thee trust in time, the friend of sor- 
row; 
But thou hast nobler comforters ; nor would I 
Bid thee place hope in blind forgetfulness. 
I know that there is taken from thy soul 
Something that must return no more — a joy 
That from the shore breathed on thee far at sea, 
Filling thy heart with home ; and sweeter far 
Arose that feeUng o'er the ocean calm, 
Than airs balsamic breathing through the ship 
From odorous island unseen 'mid the waves. 

FRANKFORT. 

O kind old man ! Thy sweet and solemn voice, 
Fit organ for such peaceful images, 
Breathes a calm reconcilement through my soul, 
These silvery locks made white by time and sor 

row. 
Yet in their reverend beauty meekly smiling 
At what hath made them so ; most silently 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



287 



Inspire my heart, although yet young in grief, 
With resignation almost like thine own. 

PRIEST. 

Son ! hast thou strength to look upon that sight, 
Where human loveliness seems perfected 
By the last smile that will not pass away ? 

FRANKFORT. 

They yet then are unburied ? 

PRIEST. 

Even this day, 
At the hour when yonder bell would have been 

tolling, 
In other times than these, for morning-service. 
Her spirit went to heaven — your brother died 
Some little hours before. 

FRANKFORT. 

And in that house 
My mother and her little son lie dead ! 
— Yes ! I have strength to look on them, to kiss 
Their cold white faces — to embrace their bodies, 
Though soul be gone still tenderly beloved, — 
To gaze upon their eyelids, though the light 
Must never break in beauty from below them, 
And, with the words of fondest agony, 
Softly to whisper love into the ear 
That in its frozen silence hears me not. 

PRIEST. 

I will conduct thee to them. 

FRANKFORT. 

At the hour 
When she was dying, in our vessel's barge 
Was I approaching to the shore, — the oars 
Sounded as they were muffled on the black 
And sluggish water ! 'Twas a gloomy hour. 
Yet, dark as it was, I ne'er expected this. 
One visit v;ill I pay them ere I go. 
Oh ! I have many a heavy thought to utter 
Which God alone must hear. 



We will pray for thee. 
Standing uncover'd in this silent street. 
And when we think thy soul is satisfied 
With the awful converse hold en with the dead. 
We will come to thee for a little while, 
And sit with thee beside their bodies. God 
Will not forsake thee in this last distress. 

FRANKFORT. 

I dare not enter, though I yearn to lie 
For ever by their side. The very beauty 
Which in their sleeping faces I shall see 
With its fair image holds me motionless, 
A gulf of darkness lies beyond that door '. 
— tell me, reverend father ! how they died. 
And haply then I may have strength to go 
And see them dead : Now 'tis impossible. 
Wilraot ! why do you weep ?— be comforted. 



Though from the awful suddenness of their death 
The Plague hath surely stricken them, yet 
they lie, 



Unhke the other victims of that pest. 
In more than mortal beauty. Their still faces, 
When last I saw them, in the moonlight lay. 
Like innocence sleeping in the love of heaven, 
Love mix'd with pity. Though a smile was there, 
It seem'd a smile ne'er meant for human eye. 
Nor seem'd regarding me ; but there it shone 
A mournful lustre, filling all the room 
With the silence of its placid holiness. 

FRANKFORT. 

Lovelier than when alive they might not be. 
Tell how they died. 



Last night I sat with her 
And talked of thee ; — two tranquil hours we talk'd 
Of thee and none beside, while little William 
Sat in his sweet and timid silent way 
Upon his stool beside his mother's knees. 
And sometimes looking upwards to her face, 
Seem'd listening of his brother far at sea. 
This morning early I look'd in upon them 
Almost by chance. There little William lay 
With his bright hair and rosy countenance 
Dead ! though at first I thought he only slept. 
"You think," his mother said, "that William 

sleeps I 
But he is dead ! He sicken'd during the night. 
And while I pray'd he drew a long deep sigh, 
And breathed no more !" 

FRANKFORT. 

O sweet and sinless child ! 



Go on — go on ! 



I look'd on her who spake, 
And I saw something in her tearless eyes 
More than a mother's grief — the cold dull gleam 
Of mortal sickness hastening to decay. 
She ask'd me not to leave her, and I staid 
Till human help or comfort by that saint 
No more was needed. But a gentler death 
A Christian never died. Methought her soul 
Faded in light, even as a glorious star 
Is hidden 'mid the splendours of the morn. 

FRANKFORT. 

I hope she wept not long and bitterly 
For her poor sailor's sake ? O cruel wind 
That kept our ship last night far out at sea ! 



"In life I was most happy in my son," 
She said, " and none may know the happiness 
His image yields me at the hour of death." 
— I found that she had laid upon her bed 
Many of those little presents that you brought her 
From your first voyage to the Indies. Shells 
With a sad lustre brighten'd o'er the whiteness 
Ofthese her funeral sheets; and gorgeous feathers. 
With which, few hours before, her child was 

playing. 
And lisping all the while his brother's name, 
Form'd a sad contrast with the pale, pale face 
Lying so still beneath its auburn hair. 
Two letters still are in her death-closed hand, 
And will be buried with her. One was written 



288 



JOHN WILSON 



By your captain after the great victory 
Over De Ruyter, and with loftiest praise 
Of her son's consummate skill and gallantry 
During the battle, told how he had saved 
The lives of two young noble Hollanders, 
By leaping overboard amid a storm. 
The other, now almost effaced by tears. 
Was from yourself, the last she had from you, 
And spoke of your return. God bless thee, boy ! 
I am too old to weep — but such return 
Wrings out the tears from my old wither' d 
heart. 

FRANKFORT. 

'tis the curse of absence that our love 
Becomes too sad — too tender — too profound 
Towards all our far-off friends. Home we return, 
And find them dead for whom we often wept, 
Needlessly wept when they were in their joy ! 
Then goes the broken-hearted mariner 

Back to the sea that welters drearily 
Around the homeless earth ! 

PRIEST. 

Thy mother waits 
Her son's aoproach — in beauty and in peace. 

FRANKFORT. 

1 go into her chamber — fear me not ; 

I will not rush into the mournful presence 
With frantic outcry, and wdth violent steps 
Most unbecoming 'mid the hush of death. 
But I with footsteps gentle as the dew, 
And with suspended breath, will reach her bed ; 
There silent as she is, so will I be. 
Lying beside my mother in her sleep 
With my head upon her bosom — cold — cold — 
cold. 



SCENE II. 

A little Room in a lonely Street in the Suburbs.- 
Isabel sitting with the Bible on her knees. 

Enter Magdalene. 



My gracious lady ! bless that face again ! 
Here have I sat this long, long wretched day 
Quite by myself, until I thought with horror 
You never might return. 

MAGDALENE. 

O needless fears '. 
Sister ! thy anxious heart will never learn 
To think more on thyself, and less on others. 
Yet to thy friends thine are endearing faults, 
And make thee loved the more. 



How pale you look ! 
Wearied, and pale, and languid — sit down here, 
My gentle mistress ! Blest is charity 
From ordinary hands, but sure from thine 
It must drop on the children of the poor. 
Like dew from heaven upon th' unconscious 
lambs. 



MAGDALENE. 

I will sit down av/hile. I have been kept 
From home, beyond my promised hour, by sad 
And unexpected duty. Frankfort's mother, 
And her sweet little son, this morning died. 

ISABEL. 

Both dead ! I might have known it from that face. 

MAGDALENE. 

I have prepared their bodies for the grave ; 
And with such flowers as in a desert square 
Of the city I could gather, are they drest, 
Sleeping together sound and silently. 

ISABEL. 

what will that kind-hearted sailor think. 
When he returns from sea ! 

MAGDALENE. 

I shudder for him ! 
His love was so profound. 

ISABEL. 

matchless pair '. 
In love, in beauty, and in innocence 
So long united, now your orphan hearts 
Will closer cling in your calamity ; 
vis I have seen upon a leafless bough 
Two young doves sitting silent, breast to breast. 

MAGDALENE. 

Happy may he be for ever — may his ship 

Linger in friendly port, or far at sea 

Be chain' d in long, long calm, so that he comes 

not 
Unto this City of the Plague '. He lives, 
And long will live — that thought is happiness 
Enough for me. I see him on the deck, 

Walking and speaking O good Isabel ! 

A bright and sunny vision often breaks 
Upon my praying soul, even at the bed 
Where death is busy, and with contrite heart 

1 strive to dim it : Angel-hke it is, 
But oh I too dear in its humanity. 

And, like a spirit Ungering round a tomb, 
It ever haunts mv desolated bosom. 



Cherish that image — he will yet return 
To live with thee for ever. 

MAGDALENE. 

Noble spirit ! 
I thought I loved him well when we were happy, 
And lived together 'mid all happy things. 
As of our bliss partaking. Death has come. 
And in affection left us parentless ; 
And now it seems that all the love I bore 
My father and my mother has been pour'd 
Into that mild, that brave, that generous heart. 
Ay ! what will he say indeed when he returns ? 



Thy parents both are dead — one month ago 
They died before thine eyes ; yet where on earth 
Might we behold a countenance array'd 
In the light of an immortal happiness, 
O Magdalene ! like to thine ? 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



289 



MAGDALENE. 

Sometimes I fear 
I have a stony heart. 

ISABEI,. 

The hush thou feel'st 
Will breathe through Frankfort's soul on his 

return, 
And you will speak together of the dead 
As of some gentle beings who have gone 
To sojourn in a far-off happy land 
Which one day ye will visit. 

MAGDALENE. 

I know well 
That they who love their friends most tenderly 
Still bear their loss the best.'-" There is in love 
A consecrated power, that seems to wake 
Only at the touch of death from its repose 
In the profoundest depths of thinking souls. 
Superior to the outward signs of grief, 
Sighing, or tears, — when these have pass'd away, 
It rises calm and beautiful, like the moon 
Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness 
Mingling the breath of undisturbed peace. 

ISABEI,. 

With that aubhme faith ye will both be happy ! 

MAGDALENE. 

How brtglit and fair that afternoon returns 

When last we parted ! Even now I feel 

Its dewy freshness in my soul. Sweet breeze ! 

That, hymning like a spirit up the lake, 

Came through the tall pines on yon little isle 

Across to us upon the vernal shore 

With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest 

The unseen musician floating through the air, 

And smiling said, " Wild harper of the hill! 

So mayst thou play that ditty when once more 

This lake I do revisit," As he spoke, 

Away died the music in the firmament, 

And unto silence left our parting hour. 

No breeze will ever steal from nature's heart 

So sweet again to me. 



Canst thou not think 
Of e'er again returning to the vale 
Where we were born ? Should Frankfort come 

from sea 
Thou art his own betrothed : two such souls 
Arfi not by God destined to live apart 
Even on this earth ; and ere you go to heaven 
To join the blessed dead whom we deplore, 
They would regard your life of sanctity 
Frim their bright courts with joy, and your still 

walks 
Til rough vale and forest by those holy watchers 
Be kept from earthly ill, 

MAGDALENE. 

Whate'er my doom. 
It cannot be unhappy. God hath given me 
The boon of resignation : I could die, 
Though doubtless human fears would cross my 

soul, 
Calmly even now ; — vet if it be ordain'd 
37 



That I return unto my native valley 

And hve with Frankfort there, why should I fear 

To say I might be happy — happier far 

Than I deserve to be ? — Sweet Rydal lake I 

Am I agam to visit thee ? to hear 

Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul ? 



Methinks I see us in a cheerful group 
Walking along the margin of the bay 
Where our lone summer-house — 

MAGDALENE. 

Sweet mossy cell ! 
So cool — so shady — silent and composed '. 
A constant evening full of gentle dreams ! 
Where joy was felt like sadness, and our grief 
A melancholy pleasant to be borne. 
Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring 
In her own rose-bush near the quiet door ? 
Bright sohtary bird ! she oft will miss 
Her human friends : Our orchard now^ must be 
A wilderness of sweets, by none beloved. 



One blessed week would soon restore its beauty, 
Were we at home. Nature can work no wrong. 
The very weeds how lovely ! the confusion 
Doth speak of breezes, sunshine, and the dew. 

MAGDALENE. 

I hear the murmuring of a thousand bees 
In that bright odorous honeysuckle wall 
That once enclosed the happiest family 
That ever lived beneath the blessed skies 
Where is that family now ? O Isabel, 
I feel my soul descending to the grave. 
And all these loveliest rural images 
Fade, like waves breaking on a dreary shore. 



Even now I see a stream of sunshine bathing 
The bright moss-roses round our parlour window i 
Oh ! were we sitting in that room once more I 

MAGDALENE. 

'Twould seem inhuman to be happy iliere, 
And both my parents dead. How could I walk 
On what I used to call my father's walk, 
He in his grave I or look upon that free 
Each year so full of blossoms or of fruit 
Planted by my mother, and her holy name 
Graven on its stem by mine own infant hands *. 

ISABEL. 

It would be haunted, but most holy ground. 

MAGDALENE. 

How tenderly did Frankfort love my parents ! 

From the first hour we met, his imagfe seem'd 

In the still bosom of our family 

The silent picture of an absent friend ! 

— Methinks I hear his voice while he recites 

Some fragment of a poem, or wild song 

About the troubles of the pitiless sea. 

Most other sailors have loud jocund voices , 

But his was always low and somewhat sad , 

As if he bore witlun his soul the sound 



290 



JOHN WILSON. 



Of that wild-raging world, the memory 
Of battle and of shipwreck, and of friends 
By death ta'en from him or captivity. 



Much hath that brave man suffer'd, yet he pities 
All them who mourn — nor on himself bestows 
So much as one sad dream. 

MAGDALENE. 

Dost thou remember 
That melancholy but delightful strain 
He framed one summer evening in our cell, 
When that fair orphan came with streaming eyes, 
To tell us that the lady of the castle, 
Marie le Fleming, on her death-bed lay ? 



I recollect it well. 

MAGDALENE. 

The sorrowful 
Still love to muse on all distressing things, 
And sure her death was so. Repeat the dirge 
Composed while she was parting from the earth. 
Ere yet thy voice begin, I see the land, 
The beautiful land of mountains, lakes and woods, 
All glimmering with a melancholy light 
Which must unto mine eyes endure for ever. 
O Isabel ! when o'er this doleful city 
Rises the snow-white tower of Grassmere church — 
—Go on, — go on, for I begin to rave, 

DIRGE. 

The fairy on Helvellyn breathes 

Into the diamond's lustre fair, 
And in that magic gleam she wreathes 

The dew-drops round her glittering hair. 

The driving blast — the dimming rains 
May there disturb its secret place, 

But evermore the stone retains 
The image of that loveliest face. 

So in our lady's radiant eyes 

Joy look'd when she was yet a child, 

And there 'mid shades of sickness lies 
Beauteous as when at first she smiled. 

— 'Tis said there is a wondrous bird 
That ne'er alights to fold her wings, 

But far up in the sky is heard 

The music which the creature sings. 

On plumes unwearied, soft and bright 
She floateth still in hymning mirth, 

For ever in her native light ! 
Unatain'd by any touch of earth ! 

Our lady's soft and gentle feet 
O'er earth in mortal motion swim, 

But angels come from heaven to meet 
The incense of her holy hymn. 

On yonder pool so black and deep. 
In her green cradle rock'd to rest, 



Behold the water-lily sleep ! 
Serenely, with untroubled breast ! 

Alike unto that fearless flower 
The arrowy sleet — the dewy balm — 

The sunlight's smile — the tempest's lower— 
For hers is an eternal calm. 

Across our gracious lady's bed 
A blast hath come as from the grave. 

But on her pillow rests her head 
Calm as that lily on the wave. 

— From heaven fair beings come at night 
To watch o'er mortals while they sleep ; 

Angels are they, whose sole delight 
It is to comfort those who weep. 

How softly on the dreamer's head 
They lay their soft and snow-white hands! 

One smile ! then in a moment fled, 
They melt away to happier lands. 

I wake ! and lo ! my lady fair 
Is smiling near the orphan's bed. 

With all the charms the living wear 
Join'd to the beauty of the dead. 

— O perfect is a plaintive tune 
When slowly sung at fall of even. 

In some wild glen beneath the moon, 

When silence binds the earth and heaven ! 

Remembrance rises faint and dim 

Of sorrows suffer'd long ago, 
And joy delighteth in the hymn 

Although it only breathe of woe. 

Our lady's spirit it is pure 

As music of departed years; 
On earth too beauteous to endure. 

So sad — so wild — so full of tears ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Methinks I see the splendid funeral 
O'erspreading Grassmere churchyard. Vain 

parade ! 
Lost on the thousand weepers standing there, 
With the image of that corpse so beautiful 
Lying all dress'd with flowers before their souls. 
The ancient castle from that dismal day 
Seem'd going fast to ruin — the oak-wood 
Is black and sullen 'mid sunshiny hours, 
And oft upon the green and primrose bank 
Of her own Rydal lake, the voice of grief 
Comes with the little waves, a peaceful dirge 
Of Nature o'er the lady whom she loved. 



Nature most gently led her unto rest ; 

And as her eyes grew dim, there swam before 

them 
Sweet images of all that most she loved 
Breathed from the heavens and earth. O different 

far 
Must be our doom ! Hark ! hark the nightly 

shrieks ! 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



291 



At the same stated hour ! those thundering 

wheels ! 
Ah me ! I never hear that hideous noise, 
But the deep hush of Grassmere vale — the tower 
Chiming through morning-silence, and the lake 
Reflecting all the heavens 

MAGDALENE. 

Of this no more, 
My gentle Isabel! Can we speak so long 
About ourselves, and Frankfort's mother lying 
A corpse ! It seems as if we had not loved her. 
O we are selfish beings even when we think 
That we have wean'd our souls from earthly 
joys. 



When is the funeral ? 

MAGDALENE. 

At twelve o'clock 
To-night will that dehghtful old man come, 
To see them decently carried to the grave ; 
And I will in that small procession walk 
Close to her dear, dear head. She was beloved 
By all who saw her once — so beautiful ! 
So meekly beautiful ! so sadly fair ! 
So happy in her solemn widowhood ! 

ISABEL. 

You will return at midnight ? 

MAGDALENE. 

Yes — kind heart ! 
And for one single day I must refrain 
From visiting the sick. A trying day 
Hath this been to me. O ye holy Ones, 
With saints united in beatitude, 
Look down upon us in this lonely room. 
Sitting in the dimness of mortality. 
With sorrow in our souls ! — My Isabel, 
I may not chaunt with thee our evening hymn, 
For I am faint. Already have I pour'd 
My heart in holy song unto the ear 
Of pitying Jesus — sing it by thyself: 
In silence will I join the sacred strain. 

HYMN. 

The air of death breathes through our souls, 

The dead all around us lie ; 
By day and night the death-bell tolls 

And says " Prepare to die !" 

The face that in the morning sun 

We thought so wondrous fair, 
Hath faded, ere his course was runj 

Beneath its golden hair. 

I see the old man in his grave 

With thin locks silvery grey ; 
I see the child's bright tresses wave 

In the cold breath of the clay. 

The loving ones we loved the best, 

Like music all are gone ! 
And the wan moonlight bathes in r«6t 

Their monumental stone. 



But not when the death-prayer is said. 

The life of life departs : 
The body in the grave is laid, 

Its beauty in our hearts. 

At holy midnight voices sweet 
Like fragrance fill the room, 

And happy ghosts with noiseless feet 
Come bright'ning from the tomb. 

We know who sends the visions bright, 
From whose dear side they came ! 

— We veil our eyes before thy light, 
We bless our Saviour's name ! 

This frame of dust, this feeble breath, 
The Plague may soon destroy ; 

We think on Thee, and feel in death 
A deep and awful joy. 

Dim is the fight of vanish'd years 

In the glory yet to come ; 
O idle grief ! O foolish tears ! 

When Jesus calls us home. 

Like children for some bauble fair 
That weep themselves to rest. 

We part with life — awake ! and there 
The jewel in our breaat ! 



SCENE III. 

The open Street. — A crowd of Men and Women 
gathered in a tumultuous manner. 

FIRST MAN. 

There goes a notable fool ! The moon is yonder 
Shining like the sun, but with a tamer light 
And yet with blazing oil-torch puffing forth 
Its noisome vapours on each passenger. 
This greasy varlet scours along the street. 
Fixing his puny stars where'er he stops. 
In many a long line twinkling sleepily. 
What is the use of these same lamps? The 

Plague 
Is not afraid of light, and kills by day, 
By moon-light, star-light, lamp-light, every light. 
Is it that v/e may see each other's faces 
More clearly as we pass ? Now, on my soul, 
I have not seen one face for these three months 
That spoke not of the grave. This very wretch, 
With long lean shrivell'd shanks, look'd as he 

pass'd 
Like some well-season'd dry anatomy 
Escaped from Surgeon's-hall. The Plague, my 

girl 
Hath spoil'd the beauties of good London town, 
And (let me see thy face below this lamp,) 
Good faith ! they're not so useless as I thought — 
Hadst thou been Eve, Adam had ne'er been 

tempted. 

SECOND MAN. 

Ay ! folks may jest, and with right heavy hearts. 
For my own part, I don't expect this Plague 
Will change its quarters, long as it has left 



JOHN WILSO. 



A single man alive. As for the moon 
That shines so brightly, have you ever heard 
What the Astrologers say of that moon ? 

WOMAN. 

Tell, tell us what the Astrologers have said. 

SECOND MAN. 

They aay it is the moon that sends the Plague. 

FIRST MAN. 

The man in the moon ? then is he changed 

indeed 
Since days of yore. I have seen him when a boy 
Crouching beneath his slicks most woefully, 
Condemn'd to bear the load in punishment 
Of Sabbath-breaking. Now he walks erect 
With a huge sweeping scythe, and mows us 

down, 
Us poor unhappy Londoners, like grass 
By the acre. 

THIRD MAN. 

Yea ! before (he Plague burst out 
All who had eye-sight witness'd in the city 
Dread apparitions, that sent through the soul 
Forebodings of some wild calamity. 
The very day-light seem'd not to be pour'd 
Down from the sun — a ghastly glimmering haze 
Sent upwards from the earth ; wliile every face 
Look'd wan and sallow, gliding through the 

streets 
That echoed in the darkness. When the veil 
Of rnist was drav/n aside, there hung the sun 
In the unrejoicing atmosphere, blood-red. 
And beamless in his wrath. At morn and even, 
And through the dismal day, that fierce aspect 
Glared on the city, and many a wondering group 
Gazed till they- scarce believed it was the sun. 
— Did any here behold, as I beheld, 
That phantom who three several nights appear'd, 
Sitting upon a cloud-built throne of state 
Right o'er St. Paul's Cathedral? On that throne 
At the dead hour of night he took his seat. 
And monarch-like stretch'd out his mighty arm 
That shone like lightning. In that kingly motion 
There seem'd a steadfast threat'ning — and his 

features, 
Gigantic 'neath their shadowy diadem, 
Frov/n'd, as the phantom vow'd within his heart 
Perdition to the city. Then he rose, 
Majestic spectre '. keeping still his face 
Towards the domes beneath, and disappear'd, 
Still threatening with his outstretch'd arm of 

light, 
Into a black abyss behind the clouds. 

VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 

I saw him — on the very night I saw him, 
When first the Plague broke out. 

THIRD MAN. 

And saw ye not 
The sheeted corpses stalking through the sky 
In long, long troops together — yet all silent 
And, unobservant of each other, gliding 
Down a dark flight of steps that seem'd to lead 
Into the bosom of eternity ? 

VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 

Qo on, go on — tell us of what thou sawest : 



Thou art a scholar, and thy tongue can speak 
Even like a written book. What sawest thou 
else ? 

THIRD MAN. 

I have seen hearses moving through the sky! 

Not few and soUtary, as on earth 

They pass us by upon a lonesome road, 

But thousands, tens of thousands moved along 

In grim procession — a long league of plumes 

Tossing in the storm that roar'd aloft in heaven, 

Yet bearing onwards through the hurricane, 

A black, a sdent, a wild cavalcade 

That nothing might restrain ; till in a moment 

The heavens were freed, and all the sparkling 

stars 
Look'd through the blue and empty firmament ! 



They all foretold the Plague. 

THIRD MAN. 

And 1 have seen 
A mighty church-yard spread its dreary realms 
O'er half the visible heavens— a church-yard 

blacken' d 
With ceaseless funerals, that besieged the gates 
With lamentation and a wailing echo. 
O'er that aerial cemet'ry hung a bell 
Upon a black and thund'rous-looking cloud, 
And there at intervals it swung and toll'd 
Throughout the startled sky ! Not I alone. 
But many thousands heard it — leaping up, 
Not knowing whether it might be a dream, 
As if an earthquake shook them from their beds. 
Nor dared again to sleep. 

FIRST WOMAN. 

Cease, cease that jargon 
About sights seen in the sky. The city shows 
Phantoms, and hearses, and church-yards enow, 
Without recourse to visions in the heaven. 



Heed not that foolish wretch — go on, go on, 
I love to feel my hair stand up on end, 
And my heart beat till I can hear its sound. 

THIRD MAN. 

Dost not remember that black stormy night, 
When all at once the hurricane ceased, 
And silence came as suddenly as light 
Bursting on darkness ? In that awful hush 
The city like a panting monster lay, 
Fearful of danger which it knew not of, 
Yet felt that it was near. Then overhead, 
As from a floating cloud, a mighty voice 
Came like the roar of ocean, "Death! death! 

death !" 
A thousand echoes wail'd the giant-cry 
Faintlier and faintlier — till once maro the storm 
Rose on the night, and that poY'.entoas voice 
Left the pale city quaking in its fear. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

His words are like a dream — more terrible 
These sights and sounds f«cm the disarftrou'j S«^ , 
Than all the real terrors f-. ihc Plague. 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE 



293 



FIRST MAN. 

Come, woman! with that wild and coal-black 

eye, 
Let us hear thee speak ! no idle dreamer thou ! 
[ like that smile of scorn and bitterness. 

FIRST WOMAN. 

I cannot say that I dishke the Plague. 
Good faith ! it yields rare harvest to the poor 
Who are industrious, and will sit by night 
Round beds where richer servants dare not come. 
Yet after all 'tis not the Plague that kills, 
But fear. A shake of the head — a sapient look — 
Two or three ugly words mutter' d through the 

teeth — 
Will go long way to send unto his grave 
A soldier who has stood fire in his day. 
And as for women, and the common run 
Of men — for instance mercers, lawyers' clerks, 
And others not worth mentioning, they die, 
If a sick-nurse only look upon her watch 
To know the hour of the night. What matters it ? 
In a hundred years — all will be well again. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

You must have seen rare sights in your time, 
good woman ! 

FIRST WOMAN. 

I have seen for two months past some score i' the 

day 
Give up the ghost. No easy business 
To lay so many out. When they paid well 
I did my office neatly — but the poor 
Or niggardly, I put them overhand 
In a somewhat careless way — gave them a stretch 
Or two — down with their eye-lids — shut their 

mouths. 
And so I left them. 'Twas but slovenly work. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Ha ! ha I ha ! — Why wert thou so kind, brave 

wench ! 
Unto tlie lazy cruel-hearted rich ? 
They owe at least one kindness to the poor. 
Let them feel what still they preach of — gratitude. 

FIRST WOMAN. 

I knov^ not what the gentry and nobility 
Think of this way of burial. In they go, 
Beggar and banker, porter, gentleman, 
The cinder- wench and my white-handed lady, 
Into one pit. rare ! rare bed-fellows ! 
There they all lie in uncomplaining sleep. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Canst give some little history of the dead ? 

FIRST WOMAN. 

Yes — I could malie your pale face paler still, 
Did I chuse to be talkative — but one 
Short history of a wretch who died to-day 
I will give — and his name was Rivington. 
Eternal curses blast ihat hateful name ! — 
Y Curst be he even within the crowded grave ! 
And may his lingering spirit feel the pressure 
Of a hundred corpses weighing down its life, 
In agony and torment, down to hell ! 



SECOND WOMAN. 

Come, for the story — you may spare your curses. 
God wot! you waste your breath. The gentle- 
man 
Is dead — I'll warrant that his soul's ta' en care ofi 

FIRST WOMAN. 

I was sent for to a house that was Plague-struck 
To lay out two small children. Rivington ! 
Methought I knew that name. Could it be he 
Whom twenty years before I knew too well 
Among the towers of Oxford, where he studied, 
As some said, for the church ; a worthy son 
Of such a mother — no less worthy child 
Of such a rare nurse — Oxford and the church! 
At once I knew the caitiff, as he lay 
Dying alone 'mid his dead family, 
j Whose blue-swollen faces had a look in them 
i Of their most wicked father. Had they lived, 
! They had been evil — no good could have come 
! From blood of his — it had a taint in it. 
I had forgot to mention that his wife 
! Was likewise lying dead. Poor soul ! her face 
Was beautiful, and seem'd the face of sorrow 
! Rather than of death. Much no doubt had she 

suffer'd. 
j Married for ten long years to such a husband ! 
When I had done my duty, "Where's your 

gold?" 
I ask'd this master of a family, 
Who with a fix'd and stupid face was sitting 
Idle in hi:? chair. "Where, ruffian! is vonr 

gold?" 
But, to make short a rather tedious story, 
He knew me — knew that I was come to curse 

him , 
To howl my dying curses in his ear, 
Nor would I hsten to his cowardly voice. 
Imploring mercy and forgiveness. Curse him I 

SECOND WOMAN. 

What was his crime ? 

FIRST WOMAN. 

We were three sisters once, 
Happy and young, and some thought beautiful, 
And by our cheerful industry supported 
Our palsied mother. But this dem.on came. 
And by his wheedling arts and tempting gold, 
Unknown to one another we all fell 
Into sin, and shame, and sorrow. Our sick. 

mother 
Died of a broken heart — one sister died 
In childbed — and consumption bred of grief 
Soon took away another. I alone, 
Reserved for farther woe and wickedness. 
Lived on — but yet methinks this one small day, 
Those two blest hours in which I saw him dying. 
That minute when the rattle in his throat 
Closed his vile tongue for ever, and the moment 
When one convulsive gasp left him a corpse, 
Gave me my share of earthly happiness. 
And life feels life thus sweeten'd by revenge. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Felt you no little twinging of remorse, 
Thinking on days when I suppose you loved him ? 



394 



JOHN WILSON 



FIE.ST WOMAN. 



I never loved him, and he knows what love 

He bore to me. Both had our punishment ! 

I for my folly, vanity and pride, 

Base love of gold (for then that love was base 

Which now is right, and just, and necessary) 

Have led a houseless life of infamy. 

Despised, curst, fondled, starved. He for his 

lust, 
Unnumber'd lies, and fearless cruelty. 
Hath seen his children die before his face, 
And his wife perish, stricken into death 
'Mid the screaming of insanity. Remorse 
Disturb'd his ruffled bed and dug his grave ; 
While she, within whose breast he often lay, 
With the count'nance of a fury glared upon him. 
And shook the dying caitiff in the pangs 
Of pain and of despair. The hand of God 
Was there in me its worthless instrument. 

SECOND WO.WAX^. 

Let's go to merry-making — right good friends 
We two shall make. Left naked in the street 
Was I, a little infant by its mother 
Exposed to death. I in a poor-house pass'd 
My hated, hateful youth ; my womanhood 
Like thine was chiefly pass'd where I began 
My chance existence — in the street ; and now 
Without a friend, food, money, or a home, 
What care I for the Plague ? Let us go, my friend, 
To merry-making. 

FIRST MAN. 

All this is mighty well, 
But leads to nothing. Wilt thou rob a church, 
Good master Pale-face ? Wilt thou rob a church, 
And share 'mid this our ragged company 
The general spoil ? 

SECOND MAN. 

Why, any place but a church ! 

FIRST MAN. 

Ha! thou'rt a scrupulous robber ! and the sound 
Of these psalm-singing, sk. ill- voiced choristers 
Would frighten thee, gliding through the moon- 
light-aisle. 
Troth, man! 'tis well worth fighting with a ghost 
For such a booty. Silver candlesticks. 
Gold-gilt, are standing idle on the altar, 
Themselves a boy-load ! and they say a Crozier 
Most richly ornamented may be found 
In a lucky nook, — no despicable bauble ! 
But ten times Vv^orth such trifles, think thou, 

Jesuit ! 
On the bright vessels for communion-service. 
Of massy silver, which the surpliced priest 
With bolh hands gives unto the trembling grasp 
Of young communicants. When melted down 
They will make us all as rich as Croesus. Gome ! 
Let us off to the Cathedral. 

SECOND MAN. 

I for one 
Stay where I am, or seek some other duty. 
'Tis absolute sacrilege. I could not sleep 
If I had lent a hand to rob a church. 
1 go not there to pray — neither will I go 



To steal — 'tis little short of sacrilege. 
However, 1 am not obstinate, and 'tis pity 
To part from pleasant company — suppose 
We break into some house that is Plague-struck' 
Its tenants probably are dead — or dying, 
And will make small resistance — to kill such 
Cannot be well called murder. 

SEVERAL VOICES. 

Agreed ! agreed ! 
[A wild cry is heard, and a half-iidked Man 
comes raving furiously along. 

SECOND MAN. 

'Tis the mad prophet ! for God's sake let him paas. 



Woe ! woe ! unto the city ! woe ! woe ! woe ! 
The Prince of the air his palace fills to-day 
With wicked spirits in their guilt destroy'd. 
Repent ! repent ! before the red-eyed Wrath 
Wither you to ghosts. His bloody scimitar 
Is waving o'er the city. On your knees 
Fall down, ye wild blasphemers ! — 'Tis too late. 
Woe ! woe ! unto the city ! woe ! woe ! woe ! 

SECOND MAN. 

We neither rob a church nor house this night. 

MANIAC 

Repent, ye miserable troop of ghosts. 

SECOND MAN. 

We cannot repent — fear binds us fast to guilt. 



Another month, and I am left alone 

In the vast city, shrieking hke a demon ! 

Condemn'd to an eternal solitude 

Peopled but by ghosts, that will not, will not 

speak ! 
All ghding past me, wan and silently, 
With curses in their eyes, and death-like frost 
Breathed from their bony hands, whose scornful 

fingers 
Keep pointing at me rooted to the stones. 
That yield no sound to comfort my stopp'd heart. 

CROWD. 

O what a dreadful dream envelops him ' 



My sins have brought this judgment on the city. 
One sin there is that may not be forgiven, 
And that was mine : so from the lurid sky 
Down came the mighty and the fearful God, 
And like a flash of lightning wither' d up 
The hearts of his poor creatures. I alone 
Am doom'd to live for ever in the depths 
Of lifeless silence, which my madden' d shrieks 
In vain will startle, like a lonely bird 
Wailing unheeded in a vast sea-cave. 
— O Jesus ! thou Destroyer! once again 
Thy voice of thunder stuns me. Woe! woe! 

woe ! 
— The streets do run with blood ! and groans of 

death 
As with an earthquake shake the toppling walls. 
Down falls yon spire — huzza ! down, down to hell, 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 



39& 



Why stare ye so, ye dumb and pale-faced ghosts? 
O for a whirlwind's wing to sweep you away 
Like broken clouds, or the autumnal leaves 
Hissing through the cold heart of a dreary wood. 
— I hear the voice ! — Woe ! woe ! unto the city — 
woe ! woe ! woe ! 

[He rushes away shrieking. 

FIKST MAN. 

base and wretched cowards ! by the shrieks 
Of a poor madman scared and terrified ! 

Thus they who take their conscience by the beard, 
And laugh to scorn the voice that cannot lie, 
At their own shadows start ! now palsy-stricken 
By the ravings of a drivelling idiot. 

FIRST WOMAN. 

See where heaven dawns on hell ! Even in the 

path 
Of that tormented demon, onward floats 
An Angel ! Mercy following Despair ! 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Let us fall down and worship her. 

Enter Magdalene {dressed in white, with a Bible 
in her hand.) 

FIEST WOMAN. 

It is the lovely lady no one knows, 

Who walks through lonesome places day and 

night, 
Giving to the poor who have no earthly friend ; 
To the dying comfort, to the dead a grave ! 

1 am a harden'd sinner, yet my heart 

Softens at that smile ; and when I hear her voice, 
I feel as in my days of innocence. 

[They kneel down before her. 

MAGDALENE. 

Rise up, my sisters and my brothers, rise '. 



How graciously she speaks unto the poor ! 
Angels have walk'd this earth. If thou art 

one, 
And that voice tells thou art, whate'er its words, 
Let us still kneel before thee ! sinful we 1 
And in our lives most desperately wicked ; 
Yet, child of heaven ! believe us when we say 
Religion hath not wholly left our hearts. 

MAGDALENE. 

piteous spectacle ! by my very birth 

1 am a creature sinful as youi selves ! 
And if my life have freer been from guilt, 
I owe the blessing of my innocence 

To Him whose blood can change the hue of sin 
Into the whiteness of thrice-driven snow. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

We are too wicked now to hope for pardon. 

MAGDALENE. 

Ye are not lost, but think that ye are so, 
And therefore will not hope. Cheer up your 
souls ! 



Calmness will lead to hope, and hope to faith, 

And faith unto that awful happiness 

That walks unquaking through the shades of 

death, 
Triumphant over nature's agony. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

Walk not away ! speak to us yet a while ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Return unto your homes, all ye that owa 
A home — a blessing even when desolate. 
If young or old or sick be pining there, 
Think on the comfort of the Comforter. 
If all have perish'd, turn your eyes to Him 
Who dwells in Zion, and you need not fear 
The dreadful stillness of unlook'd-for death. 
1 will pray for you ; ne'er forget your prayers! 
Even now you felt how sweet it was to bless 
Me, a poor sinful creature, since you think 
That nature fram'd me kind and pitiful. 
Pray unto Him who loved you on the cross ! 
Evening and morn and noon-day worship Him, 
And what although your homes be desolate ? 
Your hearts will sing for joy — even as the lark 
'Mid evening sunshine hymning up the sky, 
Forgetful that since morn the spoiler's hand 
Had torn her low-built nest. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

O that the Plague 
Would strike me dead before thou disappear !— 
For when thy heavenly face hath pass'd away, 
What shall protect me from the ghastly looks. 
The broken voice, of guilt and agony ? 

MAGDALENE. 

Promise to pass this night in prayer. 



SEVERiL VOICES. 



We promise. 



FIRST MAN. 



She is indeed most beautiful ! O misery," 

To think that heaven is but a dream of fools ! 

Why gaze I on her thus, as if I felt her 

To be immortal ! Something touch'd my soul 

In that sad voice which earth can ne'er explain, 

Something quite alien to our troubled being, 

That carried on my soul into the calm 

Of that eternal ocean ! — Can it be ? 

Can a smile — a word — destroy an atheist's 

creed ? 
— Ha ! this is mockery ! 

SECOND WOMAN. 

See how she waves 
Her snow-white hand, from which a blessing 

falls 
On all the crowded street ! How silently 
The starry midnight passes o'er our heads! 
How gladsome the pure moonlight! Oh! that 

angel 
Hath by her beauty and her innocence 
Won the great God of mercy to look down 
On the children of despair. We part in peace ' 



296 



JOHN WILSON, 



SCENE IV. 



Frankeoet sitting beside the bodies of his Mother 
aiid little Brother. — The Priest and Wilmot 
standing at some distance. 

FRANKFORT. 

Thou need'st not look with such sad eyes on me, 
Beloved old man ! On that countenance 
I now have gazed so long, that its deep calm 
Hath sunk into my heart. 

PRIEST. 

The comforter 
Hath come to thee in solitude. 

FRANKFORT. 

When left 
With this still image, I confess my voice 
Called upon her loud and franticly 
To start up into life. Even then a smile 
Came o'er her face, a sweet upbraiding smile, 
That silently reproved my senseless grief 
O look upon her face ! eternity 
Is shadow'd there ! a pure immortal calm, 
Whose presence makes the tumult of this world 
Pass hke a fleeting breeze, and through the soul 
Breathes the still ether of a loftier climate ! 



Many sweet faces have I seen in death, 
But never one like this. Death beautifies 
Even the stern face of guilt ; and I have seen 
The troubled countenance of a sinful man 
Breathed over, soon as life had pass'd away. 
With a soft delicate shade, — as from the wing 
Of Innocence, returning to shed tears 
Over the being she had loved in youth. 
But here lies perfect beauty ! her meek face 
Free as that child's from any touch of sin, 
Yet shining with that loftier sanctity 
That holds communion with the promised hea- 
vens. 

FRANKFORT (,t0 WiLMOT.) 

Kind friend! thou weep'st ! Such tears will not 

disturb 
Her sleep ! see where they trickle silently 
Down that unmoving cheek, that feels them not 
As if they flow'd from eyes that may not weep. 

WILMOT. 

My friend ! may I kneel down and kiss her cheek ? 

FRANKFORT. 

Start not at feehng that fair face so cold ! 
I often said that I would bring my friend 
To see my mother. Lo ! I have fulfill' d 
My promise ! There she lies ! 



As I touch' d her lips 
Methought her dead face smiled a blessing on 
me! 

FRANKFORT. 

Take thou this ringlet of her auburn hair : 
'Tis a sweet auburn, mingled though it be 
With the soft silvery grey ! and be it blended 



With these thick- clustering curls of undimm'd 

joy, 
In beauty parted from the radiant head 
Of this dehghtful child, and for my sake 
Keep them for ever ! 



If deserved by love, 
Part of these holy relics should be mine. 

FRANKFORT. ' 

Ay ! ay ! — Now may I ask whose pious care 
Hath placed these death-flowers here ! Methinke 

I read 
In the fair disposition of these flowers 
The delicate language of a female hand, 
Not unforgetful of the skill that cheer' d 
Its hours of happier task, even in the sad 
Graceful adornment of the dead ! One hand, 
One hand alone on all the earth was worthy 
To place these flowers — but it is far away I 

PRIEST. 

What if that hand it were ? 

FRANKFORT. 

^ Nay ! mock me not. 

Haply thou heardest not my words aright. 



One hand alone thou rightly said'st was worthy 
To fix that wreath. The fingers of that hand 
Stirr'd not the braided hair that they did touch. 
Nor moved one fold upon the funeral sheet, 
So that the flowers they shed seem'd dropping 

there 
In a dewy shower from heaven ! Thy Magda-. 

lene 
It was indeed whose fingers dress'd the dead. 

FRANKFORT. 

Magdalene ! and in the midst of this fell Plague ! 
Mine is a most mysterious destiny. 
— O spirit of my mother ! pardon me. 
Though with thy dead body lying in my sight, 
My soul with pangs returns unto the living, 
If Magdalene indeed be with the living ! — 
That smile hath life in it. blest old man, 
Thou art indeed the servant of the Lord ! 

PRIEST. 

She lives ! and even now is on her way 
To attend thy mother's funeral ! 



FRANKFORT. 



Speak — speak- 



She is an orphan. 



FRANKFORT. 

O my heart is dry ! 
Were Magdalene's self a corpse I could not 
weep. 

PRIEST. 

I need not tell at length the mournful tale. 
Three happy weeks with their delighted daughter 
They walk'd the city — and the day was fix'd 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



297 



For their return unto their native mountains. 
But the Plague came— 

FRANKFORT {passionately.) 

They surely were not thrown, 
In the face of pity weeping all in vain, 
Together thrown into that ghastly pit — 

PRIEST. 

'Twas easy then to find a place of rest 

In consecrated ground, and they were buried. 

The very day they died, in a quiet spot 

Even not without its beauty, at the foot 

Of a small tree that Nature's self had planted. 

In a city churchyard standing quite alone. 

FRANKFORT. 

And where was Magdalene on the burial-day ? 



I must not speak to thee of that one day ! 
But it is past and gone, and Magdalene 
Is living. This is all I dare to utter. 
There is an air that memory may not breathe, 
And black oblivion hath her sacred ground 
Guarded for aye by woe and misery. 

FRANKFORT. 

Buried in a city 'mid a crowd of tombs ! 

Those floating locks blench' d by the ocean 

storms 
Through many a perilous midnight — and that 

head, 
On which the snows of age were gently falling 
Through the hush'd air of peace — both in the 

earth ! 
— Spoke they not of a burial-place far off? 

PRIEST. 

They did — but with a smile. 

FRANKFORT. 

It matters not. 
— There is a httle churchyard on the side 
Of a low hill, that hangs o'er Rydal lake. 
Behind the house where Magdalene was born. 
Most beautiful it is ; a vernal glade 
Enclosed with wooded rocks ! where a few graves 
Lie shelter' d sleeping in eternal calm. 
Go thither when you will, and that green spot 
Is bright with sunshine. There they hoped to 

lie! 
And there they often spoke to Magdalene 
Of their own dying day. For death put on 
The countenance of an angel in the place 
Which he had sanctified. I see the spot 
Which they had chosen for their sleep — ^but far, 
O far away from that sweet sanctuary 
They rest, and all its depth of sunny calm ! 
Methinks my Magdalene never dare return 
To her native cottage. 



No ! she only smiled 
When I implored her to forsake the city ; 
Then said she would not leave her parents' 

bones. 
Fain had she each day visited your mother. 

But fear'd to bring infection 

38 



FRANKFORT. 

O my mother ! 
Forgive me, heaven ! I had not sure forgotten 
That I am hstening to thee by her coffin ! 
My Magdalene's care was vain — she came at 

last. 
As these sad death-flowers lell 

PRIEST. 

' N ot in some spot 
Apart from death, in deathUke loneliness 
Doth Magdalene dwell. Throughout the livelong 

day. 
And many a Uvelong night, for these three 

months. 
Hath she been ministering at the dying bed, 
From which, with an unnatural cowardice. 
Affection, ardent in the times of joy, 
Had fled, — perhaps to stumble o'er the grave. 
— What ! though thy Magdalene heretofore had 

known 
Only the name of sorrow, living far 
Within the heart of peace, with birds and flocks, 
The flowers of the earth, and the high stars of 

heaven. 
Companions of her love and innocence ; 
Yet she who, in that region of delight, 
Slumber'd in the sunshine, or the shelter' d shade, 
Rose with the rising storm, and like an angel. 
With hair unruffled in its radiance, stood 
Beside the couch of tossing agony ; 
As undisturb'd as on some vernal day 
Walking alone through mountain solitude, 
To bring home in her arms a new-yean'd Iamb 
Too feeble for the snow ! 

FRANKFORT. 

I wonder not ! 
Its beauiy was most touching, and I loved , 
The bright and smiling surface of her soul : 
But I have gazed with adoration 
Upon its awful depths profoundly calm. 
Seen far down shadowing the sweet face of 
heaven. 



Many think she bears a charm against the 

Plague ; 
And they are not deceived. A charm she hath. 
But hidden not in ring or amulet, 
Sleeping in the quiet of her sinless soul. 
Some think she is a spirit — many look 
With tears of sorrow on a mortal creature 
Whom death may steal away — but all agree 
That a thing so piteous, kind, and beautiful, 
Did never walk before upon this earth. 

[The door opens, and Magdalene enters. 

PRIEST. 

Behold the blessed one of whom we speak ! 

MAGDALENE (seeing Frankfort and Wilnwt kneei 
ing with their faces on the bed.) 

Haply some sorrowing friends unknown to me! 

FRANKFORT (rising.) 
Magdalene ! my holy Magdalene ! 



298 



JOHN WILSON, 



MAGDALENE {throwing herself down beside him.) 
Hush ! hush ! my Frankfort ! thus I fold one 

arm 
Round thy blest neck, and with the other thus 
I touch the silent dead ! 

FRANKFOKT. 

O Magdalene! 
'Tis a wild night of bliss and misery. 

MAGDALENE. 

We both are orphans. 

FRANKFORT. 

Hush ! I know it all. — 
An angel's arms are round me — No ! a mor- 
tal's — 
A mortal thing sublimed and beautified 
By woes that would have broken many a heai-t. 
In thy embrace what do I care for death i 
In ev'ry breathing of thy holy bosom 
I feel contentment, faith, and piety ; 
Nor can the shadow of this passing world 
Breath'd o'er thy face of perishable beauty, 
Bedim thy holy spirit — it is bright, 
Nor seems to heed that gushing flood of tears. 

PRIEST (^O WiLMOT.) 

Let us retire. The hour is drawing near, 
Fix'd for the funeral. 

WILMOT. 

Heaven in mercy sent 
That angel, with her dewy voice, and eyes 
More dewy still, to stand beside the grave, 
And show my friend how beautiful in heaven 
His mother now must be ! That silent smile 
To resignation might convert despair ! 

[Priest and Wilmot retire. 



SCENE V. 

A Churchyard — Midnight — a clear Moon and se- 
rene Sky — a new-dug grave close to the church- 
wall, on which are leaning the Sexton and his 
Assistant. 



'Tis a decent job enough; for a beginner, 
You handle your spade in no unpromising way, 
And when our churchyard business revives, 
(Confound that pit with its great ugly mouth — 
'Tis the ruin of the trade) — you'll make, niy boy, 
A very pretty grave-digger. But hark ye ! 
When standing good five feet below the sod. 
Keep thine eyes open, and don't fling the gravel 
Into my face, thou screech-owl. Stretch thyself 
Up boldly Hke the son of a grave-digger. 
And form the bank above thee neat and trim. 
I wish to have some credit in my graves ; 
And even although the kinsfolk be poor judges, 
And mind these things but little, I have an eye, 
A grave-digger's eye, that loves to a nicety 
To see a trench drawn for its own dear sake. 
— Why art thou shivering there, thou Aspen- 
leaf? 



I never liked to walk through a churchyard. 
And now, at the very dead hour o' the night, 
This standing overhead within a grave 
Hath made me colder than an icicle, — 
Ay, numb as any grave-stone of them all. 
I would not care to dig a grave in a field 
Out in the country, and by good day-light; 
But to keep poking in a deep black hole, 
In the middle of a pavement of grave-stones. 
With such a ghostlike moon above one's head, 
And flinging out, instead of good plain pebbles, 
Still yellow-grinning and worm-eaten skulls ! — 
— 'Tis shocking work. 



Fie ! you disgrace your trade, 
You jackanapes ! an ancient noble trade. 
I'll get some bungler of a village-sexton, 
Some bell-ringer well versed in psalmody. 
To bury thee like a dog, and lay thy coffin 
With the wrong end to the headstone. Out Ott 
thee ! 



I think, old man ! with both feet in the grave 
As one may say — 



Ho ! ho ! advice, thou parrot ! 
With both feet in the grave ! I will be singing 
Over my work for many a year to come, 
When thou, and cliicken-hearted birds like 

thee, 
Will all be caged. Death loves a grave-digger. 
And would not hurt a hair upon his head. 
As for the Plague, he is afraid of us — 
With a mattock and a shovel o'er my shoulder 
He looks at me, and passes to such game 
As thou, and smooth-faced maidens like to thee. 



Didst ever see the lady and her child 

Whose grave we have been digging ? — for if so, 

And yet hast felt no pity at thy work, 

Thou wouldst not scruple for a yellow King 

Charles 
To bury a Christian lying in a trance. 



Six years ago, I buried her good husband. 
As proper brave a man as e'er was laid 
Under the turf. I have known the family 
Three generations, and I loved them all. 
But virhere's the use of whimpering hke a child 
That never saw a grave ? Yet, by my spade 
I think if I had any tears to shed 
I would waste them all upon this very mould ! 
For a sweeter lady never walk'd to church 
Nor stepp'd across a grave-stone. She is i 

heaven ! 
And he who thinks so well may dig her grave 
As merrily as a gard'ner in the spring. 



See ! yonder two men standing with drawn 

swords ! 
We shall be murder' d. 



THE CITY OF T'H E PLAGUE. 



299 



SEX'i'ON. 

Murder'd ? that's a trifle. 
Bat robb'd of all our money. Hold it fast 
If you know where to find it — grave-diggers 
Still carry gold about them at their work. 
They'll murder, rob, and bury us in a twinkling. 
[The Sexton and Boy stand silent within 
the shadow of the Church-wall, and Wal- 
siNGHAM and Fitzgerald approach. 

FITZGEEALD. 

This place is fitter for our present purpose 
Than that we fix'd before. Here is a grave 
Just ready for thy body, Walsingham ! 
Thou mayest have warmer lodgings for the 

night 
At the price of one small word — "forgiveness." 

WALSINGHAM. 

Methinks such high-toned pride but ill becomes 
A scene like this. What ! ask forgiveness 
Of such a thing as thou — while the Great God 
Beholds us standing here with murderous thoughts 
Upon the dark brink of eternity ! 
Think what thou art, and what thou soon 
mayst be. 

FITZGERALD. 

Fool : villain ! liar ! thus do I retort 

Thy insupportable words. Thine is the pride — 

The harden'd scorn is thine. But the hour is 

past 
In which I might have pardon'd thee — and now 
Look at this rapier, and prepare to die. 

WALSINGHAM. 

I am no coward. Yea I I wish to die — 
But in the shadow of the house of God I 
I must riot be a murderer. 

FITZGERALD. 

House of God ! 
Right pious words ! but they will not avail thee ! 
I think the Plague might well have scared such 

dreams, 
Best cherish' d in the nursery, or by women 
Whose faint hearts lean when sinking on re- 

Ugion. 
God*cares, forsooth, for us his worshippers ! 
Yet though we perish thousands in one night, 
And like the brutes are buried, still we call him 
Lord — Priest and Father, and still hope to rise 
Even from the crowded pit where we lie smother'd 
Like bees in brimstone, — to rise beautiful, 
And soar to God's throne, spirits glorified ! 

bitter mockery ! Look into that pit 
With all its dread corruption steaming up 
To heaven, like an unheeded sacrifice, 
And then dare talk of immortality. 

SEXTON {discovering himself.) 

1 crave your pardon — but 1 did not dig 

That grave for you, much-honour' d gentlemen. 
It is bespoken, and the worthy owner 
In half an hour will come to take possession. 
I have heard of people fighting for small cause, 
Or none — but cutting throats in a churchyard 
Is something new, and 'tis an ugly practice. 



FITZGERALD (rusMng on Walsingham.) 
Here's at thy heart ! 

[He receives Walsingham's sword in his heart, 
and falls, exclaiming, 

O Christ! stone-dead! stone-dead! 

SEXTON. > 

Killing no murder — 'Twas in self-defence, 
You've a quick eye, good sir ! or he had pink'd 

you. 
These swords are ugly and unhandy things : 
I never liked them. 

WALSINGHAM. 

Now I am a murderer ! 
That hideous name befits me ! I have sent him, 
In all the blindness of his atheist heart, 
To his dread audit ! Fho ! his blood will reddea 
Upon my hands for ever. Wretch that I am ! 

SEXTON. 

I hear them coming. 

WALSINGHAM. 

Whom dost thou hear coming t 

SEXTON. 

Listen ! and hear the holy sound of psalms. 

[The funeral approaches the grave where Wal- 
singham is sitting near the dead body, — 
Magdalene, Isabel, Priest, Frankfort, 
and Wilmot. 

priest. 

What shocking sight is this ? Walsingham, 

My much-beloved and much-erring boy ! 

I fear that thou hast done a deed of sin, 

For which remorse will haunt thee all thy days. 

WALSINGHAM. 

I hear thy voice, but dare not Hft my eyes 
Up to thy solemn countenance. I could bear 
Thy anger, but the pity of the righteous 
Speaks to the little virtue that is left 
In my distracted soul, and when I hear it 

that in dumb deaf darkness I could he ! 

FRANZFOKT. 

We two are brothers in calamity. 

WALSINGHAM. 

Frankfort '\ now I know who fills that 

coffin : 
Behold how with these blood-bedabbled hands 

1 tremble in the presence of her corpse. 

Look here — look here — upon this stiffening body ! 
Its face convulsed, cries out " a murderer !" 

[He flings himself down. 

SEXTON. 

Manslaughter at the worst. There was no murder. 

FRANKFORT. 

He heeds us not — lost in the agony 
Of his remorse. A more compassionate spirit — 
One more averse to the shedding of man's blood. 
Yet of his own more prodigal, never'graced 
The name of seaman. 



300 



JOHN WILSON. 



Shall we drop the coffin 
Iniij the grave ? The hour has come at last ! 
Art thou prepared to hear the funeral service ? 
Or wilt thou go behind that tomb and wait 

FRANKFORT. 

The funeral service is most beautiful, 

And I can listen to it with the tears 

Of a resigned sorrow. I remember 

The day before I bade a last farewell 

To her who is in heaven — we did partake 

Together of the body of our Lord. 

As we were walking homewards from the church, 

With eyes where a sublime devotion smiled, 

My mother look'd at me, and gently whisper'd, 

" Whate'er may be thy doom, I feel resign'd ; 

And if / am not when my son returns. 

Recall to mind this blessed sacrament, 

And think of me with Christ." 

MAGDALENE. 

Lean on my heart. 
For now the trial comes. 

[The coffin descends into the grave. 

FRANKFOKT. 

Fling, fling the earth 
Less rudely on her coffin ! Magdalene ' 
See how it disappears ! O final close 
To sunny years of joy and happiness ! 
All perish'd in that dull and hideous, sound ! 

MAGDALENE. 

No mortal ever led a happier Hfe. 
Her husband died and she was sorrowful, — 
But misery ne'er disturb'd her soul serene. 
That hke a place of worship aye was husht 
By day and night, — or with the voice of hymns 
Singing most sweetly to the ear of heaven. 

FRANKFORT. 

I wonder not so much that she hath died. 
As that a soul so perfect should have lived 
So long in this sad world. — My little William, 
Buried in all thy beauty — fare thee well ! 
Thank God ! I never said an unkind word 
To the sweet infant ! Tears were in his eyes, 
When last I went to sea — and when I said, 
That I would bring him home the loveliest shells. 
He smiled and wept. His face is smiling now 
Far, far down in the darkness of the grave. 

[They all Ttneel down around the grave. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 



The Priest and Wilmot walking m a square of 
the City. — Evening after the funeral of Frank- 
fort's mother. 



How sweetly have I felt the evening-calm 
Come o'er the tumult of the busy day 
In a great city ! when the silent stars 



Stole out so gladsome through the dark-blue 

heavens, 

All undisturb'd by any restless noise 
Sent from the domes and spires that lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the clouds of night. 



Even now 'tia so. 
Didst thou e'er see a more resplendent moon? 
A sky more cloudless — thicker set with stars? 

WILMOT. 

The night is silent — silent was the day. 
But now methinks that sky's magnificence 
Darkeneth the desolation on the earth ! 
Even such the silence of a beautiful sea 
Rolling o'er a thousand wrecks. 

PRIEST. 

Let us sit down 

Upon this seat, beneath its sheltering trees; 
And if my soul can face the fearful things 
Which it has seen and suffer'd, thou shall hear 
How a whole city perish'd — a whole city ! 
For, walking on the shore we rightly call 
The ocean calm, though distant waves be breaking 
With melancholy dash against the rocks. 

WILMOT. 

Fit place it is for such wild colloquy ! 

These empty houses, and that half-built spire, 

Standing with all its idle scaffolding — 



I see a thousand sights thou can'st not see, 
Glimmering around me — confused sights of woe 
Mingling in the train of joy and happiness. 
Sweet lovely children all around my feet 
Are sporting — for this wide square was the play- 
ground 
Where the bright families of prosperous men 
Walk'd in the sunshine with their fairy dresses, 
Laughing 'mid the flowers! — O many a slow- 
paced hearse 
I see — and little coffins borne along 
Beneath some solitary mourner's arm. 
Mix'd are these images of life and death ! 
For while I muse upon the silent face 
Of one dead infant, crowds of living spirits 
Come singing by — and though I see a coffirf, 
They see it not, but glide with sunny feet 
O'er the black pall, then disappear for ever. 

WILMOT. 

Came it on a sudden ? 



Like a thunder-peal 
One morn a rumour turn'd the city pale ; 
And the tongues of men, wild-staring on each 

other. 
Utter' d with faltering voice one little word, 
" The Plague !" Then many heard within their 

dreams 
At dead of night a voice foreboding woe, 
And rose up in their terror, and forsook 
Homes, in the haunted darkness of despair 
No more endurable. As thunder quails 
Th' inferior creatures of the air and earth, 



T HE €; I T y O F THE P L A O U E . 



301 



So bow'd the Plague at onco all human souls. 
And the brave man beside the natural coward 
Walk'd trembling. On the restless multitude, 
Thoughtlessly toiling through a busy life, 
Nor hearing in the tumult of their souls 
The ordinary language of decay, 
A voice came down that made itself be heard, 
And they started from delusion when the touch 
Of Death's benumbing fingers suddenly 
Swept off whole crowded streets into the grave. 
Theu rose a direful struggle with the Pest '. 
And all the ordinary forms of life 
Moved onvv'ards with the violence of despair. 
Wide flew the crowded gates of theatres, 
And a pale frightful audience, with their souls 
Looking in perturbation through the glare 
Of a convulsive laughter, sat and shouted 
At obscene ribaldry and mirth profane. 
There yet was heard parading through the streets 
War-music, and the soldier's tossing plumes 
Moved with their wonted pride. O idle show 
Of these poor worthless instruments of death, 
Themselves devoied ! Childish mockery '. 
At which the Plague did scoff, who in one night 
The trumpet silenced and the plumes laid low. 
As yet the Sabbath-day — though truly fear 
Rather than piety fiU'd the house of God — 
Received an outward homage. On the street 
Friends yet met friends, and dared to interchange 
A cautious greeting — and firesides there were 
Where still domestic happiness survived 
' Mid an unbroken family ; while the soul, 
In endless schemes to overcome the Plague 
In art, skill, zeal, in ruth and charity 
Forgot its horrors, and oft seem'd to rise 
More life-like 'mid the ravages of death 
But soon the noblest spirits disappear'd. 
None could tell whither — and the city stood 
Like a beleaguer'd fortress, that hath lost 
The flower of its defenders. Then the Plague 
Storm'd, raging like a barbarous conqueror, 
And hopeless to find mercy, every one 
Fell on his face, and all who rose again 
Crouch'd to the earth in suppliant agony. 

WILMOT. 

Father i how mournful every Sabbath-day 
To mias some well-known faces ! to behold 
The congregation weekly thinn'd by death, 
And empty seats v/ith all their Bibles lying 
Cover'd with dust. 



Ay — even the house of God 
Was open to the Plague. Amid their prayers 
The kneelers sicken'd, and most deadly-pale 
Rose up with sobs, — and beatings of the heart 
That far off might be heard, a hideous knell 
That ne'er ceased sounding till the wretches died. 
Sometimes the silent congregation sat 
Waiting for the priest, then stretch'd within his 

shroud. 
Or when he came, he bore within his eyes 
A trouble that disturb' d, and read the service 
With the hollow voice of death. 



Where was the king ? 
The nobles, and the judges of the land? 



They iett the city. Whither — none inquired 
Who cares now for the empires of the earth, 
Their peerage or their monarchs ? Kingly ones 
Sit unobserved upon their regal seats, 
And the soul looks o'er ocean, earth, and air. 
Heedless to whom its fields or waves belong, 
So that there were some overshadowing grove 
Central amid a mighty continent. 
Or sacred island in the healthful main. 
Where men might be transported in a thought 
Far from the wild dominion of the Plague. 
Now He is monarch here — nor mortal brow 
Durst wear a crown within the fatal sweep 
Of his long bony arm. 

WILMOT. 

He loves the silence 
Of an unpeopled reign. 

PKIEST. 

Once at noon-day 
Alone I stood upon a tower that rises 
From the centre of the city. I look'd down 
With awe upon that world of misery ; 
Nor for a while could say that I beheld 
Aught save one wide gleam indistinctly flung 
From that bewildering grandeur : Till at once 
The objects all assumed their natural form, 
And grew into a City stretching round 
On every side, far as the bounding sky. 
Mine eyes first rested on the squares that lay 
Without one moving figure, with fair trees 
Lifting their tufted heads unto the hght, 
Sweet, sunny spots of rural imagery 
That gave a beauty to magnificence. 
Silent as nature's solitary glens 
Slept the long streets — and mighty London 

seem'd. 
With all its temples, domes, and palaces, 
Like some sublime assemblage of tall cliffs 
That bring down the deep stillness of the heavens 
To shroud them in the desert. Groves of masts 
Rose through the brightness of the sun-smote 

river, 
But all their flags were struck, and every sail 
Was lower'd. Many a distant land had felt 
The sudden stoppage of that mighty heart. 
Then thought I that the vain pursuits of man 
Possess'd a semblance of subhmity, 
Thus suddenly o'erthrown ; and as I look'd 
Down on the courts and markets, where the 

soul 
Of this world's business once roar'd like the 

sea, 
That sound within my memory strove in vain, 
Yet with a mighty power, to break the silence 
That Hke the shadow of a troubled sky 
Or moveless cloud of thunder, lay beneath me, 
The breathless calm of universal death. 



I feel all fears for my own worthless self 
Vanish at thy voice — but it grows tremulous — 
I now will hear no more. I know not why 
My soul longs thus to feast itself on terror — • 
Last night I saw enough. O that churchyard ! 
That madman's dance '. 



302 



JOHN WILSON. 



PRIEST. 

My voice is tremulous, 
For I shall never see fourscore again. 
But I can speak to thee about the Plague 
That rages round us, with as calm a soul 
As if a hundred years had pass'd away 
Since yonder Pest-house heard the groans and 

shrieks 
Of more than mortal agony. 

WILMOT. 

A Pest-house ! 
O dreadful habitation ! I beheld it. 
As if m silence standing tenaniless. 
List ! list ! what fearful cries ! They will burst 

the walls, 
And issue forth a ghost-like company 
Into the frighten'd air. Now — now — 'tis silent! 
As if in that one shriek they all had pcrish'd. 

TRIEST. 

Let not thy spirit penetrate its walls. 
Our Saviour pities it. 



And who will go 
Into such tomb -like building fill'd with horror ? 



Ay ! 'tis a dreadful mansion, standing there 

So black ! as if the very walls did know 

The agony within. Yet hither come 

The children of despair and poverty, 

Who baring bosoms yellow with Plague-spots 

Implore admittance, and with hollow voice 

Do passionately vow their gratitude. 

If sufTer'd to lay down their rending heads 

On the straw pallets — so that skilful men 

May visit them, even when the wretches say 

They have no hope. Poor souls ! perhaps they 

die 
In mitigated agony at last ; 
But when a ghost-like shadow enters there 
It sees the sun no more. 

WILMOT. 

Didst thou ever pray 
Within that fearful tabernacle f 



PRIEST. 



Yes! 



'Tis but two nights ago I thither went 

To minister the sacrament. I heard 

A hideous din before I reach'd the door — 

And entering I beheld the ghastly patients 

Walking tumultuously throughout the room. 

Some seemingly in anger — all the rest 

In mute despair. There lay th' attendants dead ! 

And thirst had come upon that pale-faced crew, 

Who gasp'd, and made wild motions with their 

hands, 
When in their parch'd mouths prayers or curses 

died. 

WILMOT. 

It was most horrible! 

PRIEST. 

But I have witness' d 
A sight more hideous still. The Plague broke out 



Like a raging fire within the darksome heart 

Of a huge mad-house ; and one stormy night 

As I was passing by its iron gates. 

With loud crash they burst open, and a troop 

Of beings all unconscious of this world, 

Possess'd by their own fearful fantasies, 

Did clank their chains unto the troubled moon 

Fast rolling through the clouds. Away they went 

;Across the glimmering square ! some hurriedly 

As by a whirlwind driven, and others moving 

Slow — step by step — with melancholy miea, 

And faces pale in idiot-vacancy. 

For days those wild-eyed visitors were seen 

Shrieking — or sitting in a woeful silence, 

With wither'd hands, and heaps of matted hair! 

And they all died in ignorance of the Plague 

That freed them from their cells. — 



Do none recover 



Whom the Plague strikes ? 



Not one in many thousands. 
Yet two such wretches have I chanced to see, 
And they are living still — far better dead ! 
For they have lost all memory of the past, 
All feeling of the future. Their own names 
They know not — nor that they are human beings. 
Like images of stone there do they sit. 
When all around is agony ; or laugh. 
As if their features only were convulsed. 
In the absence of all soul ! Ay, long and loud 
The laughter is of those stone-images. 
Sitting unmoved with their glazed steadfast eyes ! 
And none can tell why the poor wretches laugh 
Who know not how to weep. 



How many children 
Must have died in beauty and in innocence 
This fatal summer ! 



Many sweet flowers died ! 
Pure innocents ! they mostly sank in peace- 
Yet sometimes it was misery to hear them 
Praying their parents to shut out the Plague ; 
Nor could they sleep alone within their beds, 
In fear of that dread monster. ' Childhood lost 
Its bounding gladsomeness — ^its fearless glee — 
And infants of five summers walk'd about 
With restless eyes, or by their parents' sides 
Crouch'd shuddering, for they ever heard them 

speaking 
Of death, or saw them weeping — no one .<?miled. 

WILMOT. 

Hath not the summer been most beautiful, 
'Mid all this misery? 

PRIEST. 

A sunny season ! 
What splendid days, what nights magnificent 
Pass'd in majestic march above the City, 
When all below was agony and death ! 
" O peaceful dwellers ! in yon silent stars. 
Burning so softly in their happiness !" 
Our souls exclaim'd, — " unknown inhabitants 
Of unknown worlds ! no misery reaches you, 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



303 



For bliss is one with immortality !" 

The very river as it fiow'd along 

Appear'd to come from some delightful land 

Unknown unto the Plague, and hastening on 

To join the healthful ocean, calmly smiled, 

A privileged pilgrim through the realms of death. 

Yea! in the sore disturbance of men's souls 

They envied the repose of lifeless things ! 

And the leafy trees that graced the city-squares, 

Bright with the dews of morning, they seem'd 

blest ! 
On them alone th' untainted air of heaven 
Shed beauty and dehght — all round them died. 
London alone, of all the world seem'd curst. 
O happy spots in country — or in town ! 
'Mid savage wilds — or dark and noisome streets — 
Cut off from human intercourse — or haunted 
By vice and sorrow, penury and guilt, 
Ye seem'd to all a blessed Paradise, 
Whither on wings of rapture they would fly, 
Nor ever leave you more — for nature groans 
" Where the Plague is not, there dwells happi- 
ness." 



Dreadfulindeed, to think how months and months 
Have pass'd, and still are passing, without hope. 



In churchyards, not in houses, it did seem 
As if the people lived. They haunted there. 
It was, you well may think, a woeful sight 
In every burial-ground to see the grave-stones 
Blacken'd o'er with persons, sitting night and 

day, 
Bcwaihng their lost friends. But sadder still, 
Ere long to see the self-same tombstones bare. 
Telling how few at last were left to weep. 
Sometimes I take my solitary stand 
In one of those wide churchyards. Onwards 

pass 
A multitude of faces recognised 
Dimly, as beings vanish' d from this world : 
Till, as I gaze upon them, memory 
Disowns the wild creation of my brain, 
And the image of those countless myriads, 
Some strange procession seems of unknown crea- 
tures 
On some unknown occasion moving by, 
And cloud-like disappearing from my soul, 
A shifting pageant journeying endless on ! 



And all immortal souls ! sent from this world 

As by a breath ! like insects vanishing 

On a sudden, when a breeze comes o'er the 

silence 
Of a sultry summer-noon ! — 

PRIEST. 

What meets thine eyes t 



Lo ! yonder Frankfort walking toward us. 
la there not something wild in his appearance? 
1 trust that all is well with Magdalene. 
Alas ! should she he dead ! 



'Tis for himself 
I fear that we must weep. That devious pace. 
Now stopping on a sudden — and now hurried, 

As by a raging wind against the will 

I tremble to behold it — for the Pest 

Oft dallies thus with its delirious victims. 

And yet some agitation of the mind 

[WiLMOT goes up to Frankfort as he is passing 
by distractedly without noticing them. 

WILMOT. 

Companion — messmate — friend — best, dearest 

friend. 
Wilt thou not speak to us ? 

FRANKFORT. 

Hoist out the barge — 
My crew will pull her through the roaring surf. 
I have a mother dying of the Plague 



Sweet friend ! look, look around ! O misery \ 
His mind is overthrown. 

FRANKFORT. 

Say who art thou 
That glarest so upon me with thine eyes ? 
Hadst thou a brother once ? 

WILMOT. 

My name is Wilmot. 

FRANKFORT. 

Wilmot? Methinks I know thee ! Wilmot ! Wil- 
mot ! 

WILMOT. 

I owe my life to thee. 

FRANKFORT. 

O merciful God ! 
A roaring whirlwind hurries off my soul — 
I surely feel these stones beneath my feet ; 
Houses are standing round me — yet even now, 
If ever sailor trod upon a deck, 
I was on board the Thunderer. What dark 

building 
Towers yonder like a cloud ? Is it a mad-house ? 
No irons on my hands O chain me — chain 

me — 
In mercy, to one steadfast place of earth, 
Nor drive me onwards like a heaving wave 
Over the midnight sea. 

PRIEST. 

Touch this grey head ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Old man ! thou hast a kind and gentle look — 
— Then tell me this, and I will bless thee for it: 
Did a fair maiden come on board to-day, 
Calling herself, with a low mournful voice, 
Magdalene Lambert ? Did she ask for me 
With that mournful voice, and hath she gone 
Weeping away because she found me not ? 
Drest is she all in white, as Poets feign 
The angel Innocence — and when she speaks — r- 



304 



JOHN V^ILSON. 



Wilmot, I knov/ thee now — hath something 

dreadful 
Fallen on my head — or am I in a fever, 
And raving here w^ith a distemper' d brain ? 

FKIEST. 

We are indeed thy friends ! Look at this hair 
Which I am wearing close unto my heart 
For thy dear mother's sake. Behold how softly 
The silver-lined auburn doth repose, 
Amid the sunshine of sweet William's ringlets. 
[Frankfort /aZ?s on his neck and weeps. 

FRANKFORT. 

Conduct me home — home — home — whate'er I 
say. 

But look not so O ! ye dim ghastly faces, 

I know ye not 1 am your prisoner 

Lead, lead me hence, and chain me in my cell. 

PRIEST {to WiLMOT.) 

Let us conduct him home ! prepare thy soul 
For what this night may happen to thy friend. 
For death is in his face. 



SCENE II. 

Magdalene seen lying asleep on a Couch — Isabel 
and a Young Girl sitting beside her. 

ISABEL. 

Didst thou e'er see so beautiful a face ? 

Lo ! how it smiles through sleep '. Even in her 

dreams 
Her soul is at some work of charity. 

CHILD. 

May I go softly up, and kiss her cheek ? 
O why is it so pale ? 

ESABEL. 

"IVas always so. 



I thought that paleness was a mark of grief. 
My mother's face was always deadly pale, 
Sut then she often wept — 1 know not why. 
This lady must be happy. 

ISABEL. 

She awakes. 

CHILD. 

Perhaps that kiss disturbed her. 

ISABEL {to Magdalene, who awakes.) 
Magdalene ! 
Thou scarcely seem'st to recollect this child. 
'Tis she who foUow'd thee from that house of 

death : 
Look here — her small hands have already learn'd 
To serve her gracious mistress ; and this table 
With such refreshments as thy need requires 
They spread — an orphan's gratitude has blest 

them. 

MAGDALENE. 

Wilt thou go hundreds of long weary miles, 



Carried thou know'st not where, along with me 

And that kind girl ? A sister of Our own 

In a far-distant land thou then wilt be. 

And all day run about green sunny hills 

With little snow-white Iambs, while happy birds 

Sing to thee from their nests among the broom. 



I would go with thee to a land of ice 

And everlasting snow. 

MAGDALENE. 

How prone to tore 
Is the pure sitdess soul of infancy '. 



My father — mother — brothers — sisters — all 

Are dead ! yet, Lady ! \vhen I hear thee speak, 

I must be happy in spite of all the tears 

That gush into mine eyes. My mother stood 

Close to my pillow last night in a dream. 

And bade me weep no more, for that an angel ' 

Had folded over me her heavenly wings. 

I woke — and there wert thou ! at my bedside, 

With these delightful smiles. 

MAGDALENE. 

O Isabel ! 
Of all the mournful — sad — affecting things 
That sorrow meets with in a world of sorrow, 
The saddest sure those smiles of happiness. 
Those sudden starts of uncontrollable glee. 
That, hke the promptings of a different nature, 
Assail the heart of childhood 'mid its grief, 
And turn its tears to rapture. Beauteous beings ! 
Hanging in the air 'twixt joy and misery ! 
Now like the troubled sea-birds wildly-wailing 
Through the black squall ; — and now upon the 

billows 
Alighting softly with the gleams of Mght, 
They float in beauty of a fearless calm. 

ISABF.L. 

Why 30 profound a sigh ? 

MAGDALENE., 

A deadly pain 
Even at that nionieut struck into my heart. 
A sudden fear disturbs me — look on my face — 
Seest thou aught wild and strange within mj' 

eyes? 
Fear not to speak the truth. 

ISABEL. 

O nought I see 
Within these eyes but a meek tender light 
Softer than svdmming tears — and on thy face 
The same pale beauty lies by all beloved 
Even when thou wert a child — a breathing pale- 
ness 
More touching than the cheeks so rosy-red 
Of other children — nothing else see I, 

MAGDALENE. 

shame ! I feel the tears upon my cheek : 

1 weep that I must die. O days and nights 
Past on my knees beside the bed of death, 
Have ye been all in vain ! I shudder at death 
Even as this child would do. — Most moumftd 

weakness ! 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



305 



CHILD. 

I would not fear to die withitj your arms. 

MAGDALENE. 

Bring me yon little mirror here — sweet child ! 

And as you come with it, look in and see 

As fair a face as ever Innocence 

Put on to gladden her own gazing soul. 

[The Child gives the looliing- glass to Magdalene, 

■who after a single glance continues. 
One look into that glass reveal'd my fate. 
I wish not to deceive my Isabel ; 
I feel that I am dying. 

ISABEL {fallen on her knees.) 

Merciful God ! 
Let the cup of death pass from her holy lips. 

MAGDALENE. 

One momentary pang when torn from earth ! 
I am resign' d. 



O last night's awful scene 
Hath overcome thy body and thy soul. 
Both are disquieted — but both ere long 
Will wake to peace. — Assist me, Margaret, 
And we two, soft and silent as a dream, 
Will lay her on that bed. How feels my mistress 1 

[They support her to bed. 

MAGDALENE. 

Too well am I acquainted with the Plague, 
And all its fatal symptoms. I beheld 
The slumb'rous weight upon my eyes, the dim 
Blue shade that itever more must leave my 

cheeks — 
My lips are touch'd by death — before the hour 
Of earliest morning, the small midnight hour — 
— O Heaven protect my faithful Isabel, 
And waft her safe, as on an angel's wing, 
To that sweet Lake which I must see no more ! 

ISABEL. 

ThiB world at once is darken' d 

MAGDALENE. 

Frankfort ! come. 
Or thy sweet voice will all be lost on me ! — 
— Last night I dreamt of death and burial : 
The Plague had stricken me in my troubled 



Look here — death-tokens on my breast ! 
[Isabel rushes into her arms and hisses her bosom. 

ISABEL. 

These kisses 
Will cure my agony ! O savage death ! 
May not the touch of that angelic bosom 
Win o'er to pity thy relentless soul ! 
Alas ! that mortal blueness hath been spread 
By the chill air of the grave ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Kiss — kiss me not. 
.39 



ISABEL. 

Till death come from thy bosom — I will kiss 
thee. 

CHILD. 

Lady ! I hear a soft tap at the door. 

MAGDALENE. 

Then open it, my little fearful maid, 
For none but friends come here. 

Enters the Old Priest. 

PRIEST. 

What ! ail in teara S 

ISABEL. 

O sir '. look here ! — look here ' 

PRIEST. 

My holy child I 
ghostlike now thy more than mortal beauty ! 
Canst thou not raise thine head ? 

MAGDALENE. 

O pray for me. 

PRIEST. 

Daughter '. thy name is well-beloved in heaven. 
There hath been something in thy destiny 
Above our human nature, and thy sonl 
Conspicuous, like a never-setting star, 
Hath shone o'er all the city — shedding jo> 
And consolation. There is need of thee 
In this most wicked and afflicted world, 
And therefore do I trust with holy awe 
That death's dark shadow will pass over thee. 
And thou in undimm'd beauty reappear ! 
—If so the will of God ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Thou must pray for me. 
While yet I hear and understand thy prayers. 
Too well thou thinkest of me — I am weak 
In all my being — weaker far than many 
Who have died unpraised — unhallow'd and un- 
wept. 

sinful pride ! and base hypocrisy ! 
If in the deep prostration of my soul 

1 did not so confess. My earthly nature 
With eager visitings to all unknown, 

Oft haunted me, when I was kneeling down 
In prayer with others — holding up the head 
From which all sense was parting. Oh ! my pity 
Was oft imperfect — almost insincere ! 
Yet God may in his boundless love accept 
My feeble efforts. Faith at least is mine ; 
Oh ! were that gone, I should be poor indeed. 



Daughter ! in happier mood thou couldst not die. 

MAGDALENE. 

father ! when I lived in happiness, 

1 drank the cup of joy, and often fail'd 

To thank the hand that gave it. Years pass'd 

by 
And still I grew and flourish'd like a flower, 



306 



JOHN WILSON. 



Unconscious of the sun that blesseth it ; 
But now the sadness of ingratitude 
Disturbeth me, when I have need of comfort. 



God is well satisfied with innocence. 

The pure soul best doth prove its gratitude 

By acquiescence to his will supreme, — 

Calm thoughts and meek desires, — unsought-for 

bliss 
Coming to youth from all the points of heaven, — 
And above all, by natural piety, 
That sees love, beauty, and dehght on earth, 
And on their wings mounts every happy man 
Up to the gates of heaven. Thy joyful years 
Are not forgotten by the Power that gave them, 
And not one virtuous momentary thought 
E'er stiir'd thy heart that is not register'd 
In the book of mercy — therefore calm thy soul. 

MAGDALENE. 

I cannot doubt the language of these eyes, 

So solemn — saint-like ! — were Frankfort hap- 

py! 

I now could follow death into the grave 
As joyfully as in the month of May 
A lamb glides after its soft bleating mother 
Into a sunny field of untrod dew. 
Heaven will protect my Isabel ! Thou too, 
My well-beloved friend of yesterday, 
Wilt have a gentle father. Dry thy tears — 
Yet youth will dry them for thee. If my Frank- 
fort— 

[She starts suddenly up in hed. 
Take — take away these hands before thy face 
And tell me in one word — " Is he aUve ?' 

PRIEST. 

He is alive — but his perturbed soul 

Is tost and driven throughout a ghastly dream. 

MAGDALENE. 

la he alone — in his insanity ? 

that the Plague would prey upon our bodies, 
But leave the spirit free 1 

PRIEST. 

Wilmot is with him. 

MAGDALENE. 

Eternal bliss be with that fearless friend ! 

PRIEST. 

It may not be the Plague. 

MAGDALENE. 

It is the Plague. 

1 know it is the Plague — and he will die. 

ISABEL. 

O lady ! rise not up. 

[Magdalene rises from bed and stands in the 
midst of Ihem. 

MAGDALENE. 

What! remain here? 
In what I say I must not he opposed. 
You love me — therefore in your love be silent. 



I go to Frankfort — I shall not fall down 
In the street before I reach him. I feel strong, 
And could walk many miles. Come, Isabel. 
Let me kiss the book of God before I go. — 
Farewell, my Httle room ! Thou art indeed 
A calm and peaceful cell — and I have pass'd 
Many still hours of awful happiness 
Within thy lonely twilight. Now, farewell! 
I leave thee for a lodging calmer yet. 



SCENE III. 

Frankfort lying on a hed in the house of his «fe- 
ceased Mother. — Wilmot watching beside him. 

FRANKFORT. 

Go upon deck, and tell me if thou seest 
The signal flying for close line of battle. 
Does our good vessel lead the van to-day? 
Or will these tame and cautious Hollanders 
Still keep a lee-shore on their skulking bowst 

WILMOT. 

Look on me, Frankfort — this is all a dream. 

FRANKFORT. 

No time for jesting. Tell the old lieutenant. 
That a braver seaman never trod the deck, 
But that I fight my ship myself to-day. 
She is his when I am killed. 

WILMOT. 

Look at this bed — 
These curtains pictured o'er with little birds 
Sporting in a grove of spring. Thy cabin, Frank* 

fort, 
Hath no such peaceful garniture. Look here. 
We have no windows like to these at sea. 
Frankfort, thou art a right good seaman still, 
And in thy raving fits must needs be fighting 
With these poor Dutchmen. — 'Prithee let them 

rest 
In their flat-bottom'd vessels for one day, 
— ^Ha ! thou art smiling ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Yes ! I well may smile 
At my poor wandering soul. Wilmot ! a ship 
Doth on the ocean hold the raging winds 
At her command — queen-like, as doth become 

her. 
But T am driven along a glimmering sea, 
And know not how to bear up 'gainst the storm. 

WILMOT. 

Thank God, you recognise your friend at last. 

FRANKFORT. 

T know thee now — ^but whether the next moment 
Thy face may seem to me what now I think it, 
God only knows. It is a dreadful state. 
When, like a horse, by lightning scared to mad- 
ness. 
One's soul flies with him wheresoe'er it will, 
And still one feels that he is hurried on, 
But cannot stop — ^in terror hurried on — 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



SO'-y 



Away — away — away — a frightful race ! 

WILMOT. 

Thou mayst remember what vagaries I 

Once fell into, when that fierce tropic sun 

Did smite my brain with fever. Then, Heaven 

bless me ! 
1 was far more pacific in my dreams, 
And fancied all the world in love with me. 

FRANKFORT. 

What fool hath brought our vessel to an anchor ? 

Order the master down — by heaven the fleet 

Will laugh us all to scorn. Hark, a broadside ! 

We are a long league in the admiral's wake 

While he is closing with the enemy. 

Hoist every inch of canvas — I will soon 

Recover my lee-way. 

[He haps out of bed v)ith great violence, and 
falls senseless on the floor. After a long 
fainting-jit, he exclaims, 

Where am I, Wilmot ? — 

Where art thou, my pure spirit — where is Mag- 
dalene ? 

WILMOT. 

She and the old Priest will be here anon. 

FRANKFORT. 

Is this a stormy night ? 

WILMOT. 

A perfect calm. 

FRANKFORT, 

The noise of thunder and tempestuous waves 
Is raging in my soul. 

WILMOT. 

'Tis all a dream. 

FRANKFORT. 

hold me — hold me fast — keep, keep me here. 

1 am on board a ship, and she is sinking 
Down to the very bottom of the sea. 

She bounds up from the abyss — and o'er the bil- 
lows 
Rolls manageless — and now — now water-logg'd, 
Is settling — settling — liil she sinks like lead, 
Never to rise again ! Hush — hush, my crew ! 
In shipwreck fearless as in battle — hush ! 
Let us sink in silence to eternity. 

WILMOT. 

On good dry land are we, my boy ! at last, 
Though yet the rolling of our gallant ship 
Is loath to leave our brains. Smile to me, mess- 
mate. 

FRANKFORT. 

Have we been travelling o'er foreign lands, 
And met adventures perilous and wild? 
Thou seem' St to look on me with asking eyes ! 
Listen, and I will tell a fearful story : 
But interrupt me not — for like a flood 
That hath been all night raging 'mid the moun- 
tains. 
My soul descends from its wild solitude, 
And must sweep on till all its troubled thoughts 



Have from their headlong fury found repose. 
Thou wilt not irtterrupt me ? 

WILMOT. 

No ! my friend ! 

FRANKFORT. 

It seemeth many many years ago 

Since I remember aught about myself; 

Nor can I tell why I am lying here. 

Before I fell into this dream, I saw 

A most magnificent and princely square 

Of some great city. Sure it was not London f 

No — no — the form and colouring of these 

clouds 
So grim and dismal never horrified 
The beautiful skies of England, nor such thunder 
Ever so growl'd throughout my native clime. 
It was the capital city of a kingdom 
Lying unknown amidst unvoyaged seas, 
Where towers and temples of an eastern struc- 
ture 
With airy pomp bewilder' d all my soul. 
When gazing on them, I was struck at once 
With blindness and decay of memory, 
And a heart-sickness almost like to death. 
A deep remorse for some unacted crime 
Fell on me. There, in dizziness I stood, 
Contrite in con.scious innocence — repentant 
Of some impossible nameless wickedness 
That bore a dread relation unto me. 
A ghastly old man — and a noble youth, 
Yet with fierce eyes that smiled with cruelty, 
Came up to me, all lost in wonderment 
What spots of blood might mean beneath my 

feet 
All over a bed of flowers. The old man cried, 
" Where is thy mother, impious parricide ! 
Ha! thou hast buried her beneath these flowers." 
The young man laugh'd, and kick'd the flowers 

aside, 
And there indeed ray murder'd mother lay 
With her face up to heaven ! imploring mercy 
For her unnati'.ral son. Then ibe old man 
Touch'd my cold shoulder with his icy fingers,. 
And direful pains assail'd me suddenly — 
Burnings and shiverings — flashings from mjr 

eyes — 
And dizzy blindness whirhng round my soul— 
And arrowy sharpness tingling through my 

bones — 
Until I wept in utter agony. 
And all the while I saw my mother's corpse 
Lying in peace before her frantic son, 
And knew that I in wrath had murder'd her. 
More dreadful was my doom than if my hand 
Indeed had ta'en her life — for sure in sleep 
The soul hath a capacity of horror 
Unknown to waking hours. No fetter'd wretch, 
Dragg'd on a sledge to execution. 
E'er felt such horrid pangs as then stirr'd up 
My spirit with remorseful agony. 
Wilmot ! Wilmot ! lead me to my n^othei^— 
That I, with yearning soul, may pour my kisses 
O'er the dear frame I murder'd in my sleep. 

WILMOT. 

Yesterday morning, in this very bed. 



308 



JO FIN WILSON 



Your mother died a calm and peaceful death, 
Blessing her son for all his piety.. 

FRANKFORT. 

O lying fiend ! Thou art the very youth 

That shook the bloody flowers before ray face. 

And from the land of dreams hast foUow'd me 

In ghostly persecution to the light 

Of this our upper world I Say ! where is he, 

The grey-hair' d fiend, in holy vestments clad ? 

Christ ! so wild a likeness in his wrath 
Of my best earthly friend ! — upon my knees 

1 cry to thee — I shriek unto thy soul — 

Art, art thou Wilmot ? — Let me see thine eyes — 
Oh ! they are fiU'd with tears ! my brother weeps ! 
And well he may — for such a wretch as I am 
God ne'er before abandon' d to despair. 



Thy soul will chmb into the light at last 
Out of its haunted darkness — fear it not. 

FRANKFORT. 

The Plague ! the Plague ! the Plague ! did she 

not die 
Of the Plague ! who saw her buried ? — No one — 

no one. — 
Drive off that madman from my mother's grave, 
And let that angel all array' d in light. 
Look down with her sunUke face into the pit, 
Her smile will make it heaven. O Magdalene 1 
Thy spirit comes down from its rest on high 
To glorify my mother's funeral. 
Yes ! What on earth we love and call it Pity, 
In heaven we worship by a holier name, 
Mercy ! the seraph whom our Saviour loves. 



She is alive. No tears need fall for him, 
Who, waking from a dream so steep' d in horror, 
Hath such an one to bless him when he wakes. 
Thy Magdalene lives. 

FRANEFORT. 

O heartless mockery ! 
Why earnest thou here to talk of Magdalene ? 
Thou art leagued with all the world to murder me. 
With that sweet name too beauteous to be borne. 
I know that she is dead, and am resign'd. 
But let her name die too — its syllables 
Flame on my brain in letters form'd of fire, 
A burning name, all, all that now remains. 

Wir.MOT. 

Oh I would die, so that my friend had peace I 

FRANKFORT. 

Wilmot ! pity him the Plague hath stricken ! 
He knows not what he says. O pity me ! 
For I have undergone such mortal pains ! 
Whether in dreams or in a waking hell 

1 know not — but my soul hath sufFer'd them— 
And they have left me powerless as a sail 
Hanging in the breathless calm. But list ! I hear 
Soft footsteps pattering all around ray head — 
Are they living feet ? 

WILMOT. 

Behold thy Magdalene. 



Enter Magdalene, Priest, Isabel, and ChiIiD. 

FRANKFORT. 

I see a group of faces known in youth — 
All but the face of that delightful child— 
And she admitted to such company 
Must be what she appears — unknown to sin. 

[Magdalene kneels down by the bed-side and 
looks on Frankfort. 

MAGDALENE. 

Say that thou know'st me, and I shall die happy. 

FRANKFORT. 

Magdalene ! for I will call thee by that name ! 
Thou art so beautiful ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Enough — enough ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Magdalene ! why I am lying here, 
And why so many melancholy faces 
Are looking all at me, and none but me, 

1 now must never know. I see the tears, 
Which all around do shed are meant for me ; 
But none will tell me why they thus should weei% 
Has some disgrace befallen me ? One word, 
One little word from thee will make all plain— 
For oh ! a soul with such a heavenly face, 

Must live but in relieving misery ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Disgrace and Frankfort's name are far asimder 
As bliss from bale. O press my hand, sweet 

friend ! 
Its hving touch may wake thee from thy. dream 
Of unsubstantial horrors. Magdalene 
Hath come to die with thee — even in thy arms ! 

FRANKFORT. 

music well known to my rending brain ! 
It breathes the feeling of reality 

O'er the dim world that hath perplex'd my eouL 
All, all again is clear — I know myself — 
Magdalene and Wilmot — Isabel and thee. 
Beloved old man ! — what may be the name 
Of this small creature ? . 

CHILD. 

Margaret Rivington. 

FRANKFORT. 

God bless thy sweet simplicity. 

MAGDALENE. 

Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy ! 

1 am no more disconsolate. We shall die 
Like two glad waves, that, meeting on theses 
In moonlight and in music, melt away 
Quietly 'mid the quiet wilderness ! 

FRANKFORT. 

Sweet image to a sailor ! — How my soul 

Enjoys this quiet after its despair ! 

O might I lie for ever on the bed 

Of sickness — so that such dear comfortera 

Might sit beside me ! singing holy airs, 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



309 



Or talking to each other, or to !ne, 
Even to the very moment of my death. 
The sweetest voice among so many sweet 
My Magdalene's ! and I the happy cause 
Of all such tender looks and melting tones. 

MAGDALENE. 

Frankfort, hast thou look'd upon thy Magdalene's 
face? 

FRANKFORT {starting up.) 

God ! remove that colour from her cheek- — 
That woeful ghmmer of mortahty !, 

Who brought thee hither from thy distant room ? 

MAGDALENE. 

On foot I came, betw^een two loving friends. 

1 felt not wearied then — but now I feel 
That I can walk no more. Let me lie down 
And die, as we two will be buried. 

Close to each other's side. 

FRANKFORT. 

O cruel friends, 
To let thee walk so far with that pale face, 
Weak as thou art, to see a dying wretch 
Like me ! 

[They raise up Magdalene, and lay her on 
the bed beside Frankfort. 

MAGDALENE. 

I hope thou feel'st no cruel pain ? 

FRANKFORT. 

Thy soft white spotless bosom, like the plumes 
Of some compassionate angel, meets my heart ! 
And all therein is quiet as the snow 
At breathless midnight. 

MAGDALENE. 

No noise in thy brain ? 

FRANKFORT. 

A sweet mild voice is echoing far away 
In the remotest regions of my soul. 
'Tis clearer now — and now again it dies. 
And leaves a silence smooth as any sea. 
When all the stars of heaven are on its breast. 

MAGDALENE. 

We go to sleep, and shall awake with God. 

FRANKFORT. 

Sing me one verse of a hymn before I die. 
Any of those hymns you sang long, long ago 
On Sabbath evtiiings! Sob not so, my Mag- 
dalene. 

MAGDALENE {sings.) 

Of Souls I see a glorious show 

Beyond life's roaring flood ! 
With raiment spotless as the snow, 

Wash'd white in Jesus' blood. 

His gentle hand their couch hath spread 

By many a hving stream — 
No eigh is drawn — no tear is shed — 

One bright — eternal dream ! 

FRANKFORT. 

I cannot see thee — but I hear thy voice 



Breathing assurance of the world to come. 

I feel that I am dying — sinking down 

As through soft- yielding waters murmuring round 

me. 
Noiseless as air, and almost to be breathed. 
It is the calm before the approach of death. 
Kiss — kiss me, Magdalene ! I am sinking down— 
Wilmot, farewell — old man — kind Isabel — 
Kiss me — kiss me ! — 

WILMOT {to Priest.) 
Death was in that long-drawn sigh. 

PRIEST. 

Our friend is gone. 

MAGDALENE. 

Yes ! I have kissed his lips. 
And they are breathless. Let me lay my head. 
On thy unbeating bosom. O sweet hair. 
In stillness shadowing that delightful face 
Where anger never came ! — I see a smile 
No living thing may borrow from the dead ! 



She is composed. 

MAGDALENE. 

Yes, Father ! I am blest. 
This were a sight on which despair might look 
With stony eyes and groan herself to madness. 
But I am dying — therefore o'er the dead 
Weep only tears of joy. 

ISABEL. 

But o'er the living ! 
Oh! 

MAGDALENE. 

A drowsiness falls on me. Isabel, 
Let me sleep in Frankfort's arms. I shall awake 
Refresh'd and happy in the approach of death, 
And whisper to thy ear my farewell words. 

PRIEST. 

She falls asleep ! in that m.ost death-like trance 

Let us bear Frankfort's body to the grave ! 

— She may recover I See her breath just moves 

The ringlets on his cheek ! — How lovingly 

In her last sleep these white and gentle hands 

Lie on his neck and breast ! — Her soul is parting * 

Had ever lovers such a death as this ? 

Let us all kneel and breathe our silent prayers \ 



SCENE IV. 

A Churchyard — Midnight — a crowd of People as~ 
semhled round the mouth of a huge pit dug for 
the interment of the dead. 

FIRST MAN. 

Keep back, my friends — so that each man may 

have 
A fair view of the pit : — We all stand here 
Upon a footing of equality. 
And the less we crowd upon each other thus, 
The better shall we see the spectacle. 



310 



JOHN WILSON 



SECOND MAN. 

What think ye ? Why the villain at the gate 
Would have admittance-money, and stretch' d 

forth 
His long lean shrivell'd fingers in my face, 
Half-beggar and half-robber. Lying knave ! 
Who said he had not drawn a sous to-night: 
For in his other palm I saw the edge 
Of silver moneys smiling daintily. 
So I push'd the hoary swindler to the wall. 
And as he dropp'd the coin I saw no harm 
In picldng up some stragglers for myself. 
I wonder where will imposition end, 
Thus rife within the dwellings of the dead ! 

THIRD MAN. 

This pit is not so wide by one good half 

As that in Moorfields. Threescore men were 

digging 
Down its dark sides for four-and-twenty hours, 
Yet in one httle week 'twas fiU'd to the brim. 
This is a sorry pit, and would not hold 
Above five hundred full-grown corpses. Zounds ! 
'Tis throwing money away to buy a look 
At such a miserable hole as this. 

FIRST MAN. 

I say stand back — what obstinate fool is this, 
All muffled up to the eyes, with his slouch'd hat 
Drawn o'er his face — still pressing to the brink, 
As he v.'ould have the whole pit to himself 
And not allow a peep to one beside ? 

SECOND MAN. 

Disturb him not — perhaps he is some wretch 
Madden'd by the Plague, and blindly coming 

here 
To bury himself alive, as many do. 
Let him leap down ; when once he feels the 

softness 
Of the cold bodies yielding under him, 
He will be right fain, if the steep walls allow, 
To crawl back to his life and misery. 

THIRD MAN. 

Let's see thy face. Perhaps thou art afraid 
Lest the night air may spoil its delicate beauty. 

[He lifts up the man's hat. 

STRANGER. 

O scoff not — scoff not at a wretch like me, 
My friends! I am no subject for your mirth. 
My wife — my father, and four little children. 
Will soon within the dead-cart be brought here. 
And I must see them buried spite of laughter. 
In spite of laughter, agony, or death. 
— Laugh on — laugh on — for all the world is 

nought 
But emptiness and mockery. I myself 
Will join your laughter — now I fear it not. 
For mirth and misery are but different names 
For one delusion. — that hideous grave 
Hath sent its earthly coldness through my being. 
And I feel blended with the damp black mould ! 

[He rushes away to a distance, and flings 
himself doton on a tomh-stone. 



■J'HIKD MAN. 

Did'st see his face i it was a dreadful sight. 
Such face I once remember to have seen 
Of a chain'd madman howling in his cell. 
Suddenly lifted from the stony floor, 
It seem'd all eyes — one gleaming of despair. 

FIRST MAN. 

What signifies a living maniac's face ? 
Have we not often seen th' unsheeted dead 
Rear'd up Uke troops in line against the walls ? 
To us at distance seemingly alive, 
All standing with blotch'd faces, and red eyes 
Unclosed, as in some agonizing dream ! 

SECOND MAN. 

Just round the corner of that street — even now 
I stumbled on such hideous company. 
The lamps burn'd dimly, and the tall church- 
tower 
Rose up between me and the moon. I saw 
A glimmering whiteness all along the walla 
Of several silent houses — up I went — 
And right before me stood the ghastly dead, 
For whose grim faces no kind hand had done 
The last sad office. Oh ! 'twas terrible ! 
To recognise in those convulsed features 
Friends at whose fire-side I had often sat ! 
And as I hurried off in shivering fear, 
Methought I heard a deep and dismal groan 
From that long Une of mortal visages 
Shudder through the deep'ning darkness of th« 
street. 



SECOND MAN. 



Hark — hark ! 



THIRD MAN. 

What hideous tolling shakes the city ! 

FIRST MAN. 

Methinks the still air, like a sudden wave, 
Heaves onward at each slow swing of that bell. 
From what tower comes the sound ? 

SECOND MAN. 

St. Mary Overie's. 
I know the toll '. a thousand dreams of death 
Come with that voice. It fills the den of night 
With mortal fear, rendering the silent heavena 
The dim abode of unimagined horrors. 
List ! every heart is beating audibly ! 

FIRST MAN. 

Who tolls the bell at the dead hour of night ? 

SECOND MAN. 

Perhaps no human hand. 

FIRST MAN. 

' Tis said one midnight 
The sexton heard a toUing from that tower, 
And entering on a sudden silently, 
He saw a being wrapt up in a shroud 
Pulling the rope with black and bony hands, 
And singing all the while a hideous tune 
That breathed not of this world. It turn'd about 
And one glance of its wild and fiery eye 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



311 



Crazed the poor wretch's brain. 



SECOND MAN. 

Have mercy — Jesu ! 
Dost thou believe in ghosts ? 

FIRST MAN. 

That midnight bell 
Startleth methinks the silent world of spirits : 
Who could deny, with that unearthly sound 
Tolling through his brain, that something in the 

grave 
Exists more horrible than worms and darkness ! 
It may be that wild dreams inhabit there. 
And disembodied thoughts ! Despair — remorse — 
And with his stifled shrieks — Insanity ! 
Half- conscious all the while that the curse of God 
Must be eternal, struck into the grave. 

THIRD MAN. 

That is my creed. Sometimes their chains are 

loosen'd : 
How else account for all the sighing sounds 
That oft at breathless midnight pass us by. 
Wailing with more than mortal agonies ? 
Strange faces often have been seen at night, 
Of persons long entomb' d ; and once a Phantom 
Walk'd to the churchyard with a funeral. 
Sobbing and weeping hke the Christian crowd. 
When, as the coffin sank, it disappear' d. 
And nought but dry bones lay upon the dust. 

SECOND MAN. 

What rumbling sound is that ? 

THIRD MAN. 

The dead-cart comes ! 
'Tis heavy laden, for it moves but slowly. 
It still is in the street — yet o'er the pavement 
It sounds dully as o'er trodden turf. 
I have driven a hearse with one dead body in it, 
And once by midnight o'er a dreary moor 
With no one near me but thai sheeted corpse, 
Till my back felt hke ice. But this dead-cart ! 
See yonder where its lamps, like two great eyes, 
Are moving towards us. It comes silently. 
For now its wheels are on the churchyard turf. 
[All make way for it as it approaches the pit. 

FIRST MAN. 

The ghastly idiot-negro charioteer 1 

See how he brandishes around his head 

A whip that in the yellow lamp-light burns 

Like a fiery serpent. How the idiot laughs ! 

And brightens up his sable countenance, 

With his white teeth, that stretch from ear to ear. 

Thank God he is no Christian — only a negro. 

[The carl is emptied into the pit. 

STRANG-ER (Jteaping in.) 
Bury me — bury me. 

FIRST MAN. 

Let him have his will. 
I would not venture down into that pit 
To help him out for all that he is worth, 
However rich he be. 



SECOND MAN. 

Yet 'tis a pity 
That his watch, and chains, and seals (thejr 

seem'd of gold) 
Should thus be lost. I'll leap down instantly 
And bring them up, if I'm allow'd to keep 
them. 
[The negro when about to drive away the cart 
descends, and hrings him up with a little 
dead child in his arms. 

STRAN&ER 

I knew my infant by her shining hair ! 
Shining at the bottom of the dismal pit, 
Even like a star in heaven. I hear her breathing ! 
— Feel, feel this kiss — for I have rescued thee 
From being buried alive. My Emmeline, 
Open thy blue eyes on thy father's heart. 
There's earth upon her face — Oh! wet damp 

earth 
On the warm rosy cheeks of innocence. 
Now 'tis kiss'd off for ever. Why not speak? 
I will carry thee home unto thy mother's bosom : 
There wilt thou speak — wilt laugh and nestle 

there. 
She thought thee dead — but thou art quite alive, 
Or rising from the dead — for dead thou art not. 
And must not be. Home! home! myEmmehnel 
Thy mother waits our coming — home ! home ! 

home ! 
[He rushes away with the dead infant in his 



FIRST MAN. 

Well, let him go — Ha ! thanks to the kind moon, 

Coming out so brightly from her tabernacle ! 

There is a perfect prospect of the pit 

Down to the very bottom. Now again 

'Tis dark as pitch. Hear! hear the crumbling 

earth. 
How sullenly it sounds when it has reach'd 
The ground-rock. 'Tis indeed a fearful depth ! 
[A small procession etiters the church-yard — 
Voices heard singing a dirge for the dead- 

Revelations, ch. xiv., verse 13. 
I heard a voice from Heaven 

Say, " Blessed is the doom 
Of them whose trust is in the Lord, 

When sinking to the tomb !" 

The holy Spirit spake — 

And I his words repeat — 
" Blessed are they — for after toil 

To mortals rest is sweet." 

[The procession advances — Wilhot, Priest, 
etc. hearing Frankfort's dead body. 



There rest awhile upon this stone, dear corpse ; 
I vnth my own hands now will dig thy grave. 
Oh! when that grave is fill'd — what solitude 
All earth will seem to me ! 

voice from the crowd. 

List to the Priest ! 



313 



JOHN WILSON, 



We are all sinful — and thy soul partook 
In the frailties of our fall'n humanity. 
Therefore, I pray forgiveness to thy sins 
From God and Christ. But this I dare to say, 
In the dread calm of this wild burial-ground, 
That, far as man's heart can be known to man, 
A braver, gentler, purer, loftier spirit 
Ne'er walk'd this world of trial. — O dear youth! 
Sweet boy ! beloved from thine infancy ! 
Methinks I see thee on thy mother's knee. 
Conning thy evening prayer. Art thou the same, 
That, with thy bright hair thus dishevell'd, 
Liest on a tomb-stone, dead and coffinless. 
About to sink for ever from our eyes ! 
— One little month — and all thy earthly part 
Moulder'd away to nothing — darkly mix'd 
With a great city-churchyard's dismal mould. 
Where sleep, in undistinguishable dust, 
Young, old, good, wicked, beauteous and de- 
formed. 
Trodden under feet by every )vorthless thing 
Human and brute ! in dumb oblivion, 
Laugh' d over daily by the passing crowd, 
Fresh shoals of wretches toiling for this world. 
— Wilmot ! 'tis hard to lay into the grave 
A count' nance so benign ! a form that walk'd 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! 



Long as he lay upon his bed, he seem'd 
Only a beauteous being stretch' d in sleep, 
And I could look on him. But lying there, 
Shroudless and coffinless beside his grave ! — 

Is it religious. Father, thus to weep 

O'er a dead body ? sure his soul in heaven 
Must smile (how well I know his tender smile !) 
To see his friends in senseless misery 
Thus clinging to the dust. 



His soul in heaven 
Looks down with love on such a friend as thou ! 
Here ! take a blessing with these wither'd hands 
Laid on thy honour'd head. Thou wert a friend 
In the calm weather of prosperity, — 
And then the beauty of friendship show'd in thee. 
Like a glad bark that, by her consort's side, 
Moved through the music of the element, 
A sunny cloud of sail. That consort sank — 
And now that lonely bark throughout the gloom, 
Labours with shatter'd masts, and sore-rent sails. 
Not without glory — though she could not save ! 
Forgive such image — but I see before me 
A living sailor and his best dead friend. 
And my soul dreams of the sea. 

WILMOT. 

Oh ! who comes here ? 

Enter Magdalene distractedly, followed by Isa- 
bel and the Child. 

MAGDALENE. 

I heard a voice ring through my dreaming ear, 
" Haste, Magdalene ! to the churchyard — they 

are burying 
Thine own beloved Frankfort !" Tell me where 



Your cruel hands have laid my mariner ! 
He shall not lie in the cold grave to-night, 
All by himself — Lo ! I his bride am here, 
And I will kiss his lips, even if the worm 
Should be my rival. I will rest my head 
Upon his breast, than icy tomb-stone colder ! 
Ay ! the grave shall be my happy nuptial-bed, 
Curtain' d with black walls of the dripping clay. 
Where is he? wretches! have ye buried him f 

ISABEL. 

Oh! must I tell thee — Magdalene! to look 

round, 
That thou mayest see thy Frankfort lying dead ! 
Behold thy sailor ! 

[Magdalene ^^mgs herself doum on the hody. 

MAGDALENE. 

Art thou still on earth ? 

cold, cold kisses ! pale and breathless lips ♦. 
Are those sweet eyes indeed for ever closed ! 

— See I see ! the garb in which he sail'd the 

deep ! 
— Thy voyaging all is o'er — thy harbour here! 
Anchor' d thou art in everlasting rest, 
While over thee the billows of this world 
Are with unheeded fury raving on. 

ISABEL. 

Hast thou one word for Isabel ? 

MAGDALENE. , 

My sister ! 
My love for thee was perfect — Wilmot ! Wilmot ! 
What art thou doing with thy savage spade ? 
Ha ! digging Frankfort's grave !— They shall not 

bury thee ! 
A thing so beautiful rhust not be buried — 

[She faints upon the body, 

WILMOT (to the Priest.) 

1 leave the dying Lady to your care. 
My soul is strong in agony of love 
And unexampled sorrow — and since I 
Did undertake to dig my brother's grave, 
I will go on with it, until I reach 

His mother's coffin ! 

VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 

God will be his help. 
That one small grave — that one dead mariner— 
That dying Lady — and those wondrous friends, 
So calm, so lofty, yet compassionate — 
Do strike a deeper a.V'fe into our souls, 
A deeper human grief than yon wide pit, 
With its unnumber'd corpses. 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

Woe and death 
Have made that Angel bright their prey at last ! 
But yesterday I saw her heavenly face 
Becalm a shrieking room with one sweet smile! 
For her, old age will tear his hoary locks. 
And childhood murmur forth her holy name, 
Weeping in sorrowful dreams ! 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

Her soft hand closed 
My children's eyes,' — and when she turn'd to go, 



THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 



313 



The beauty of her weeping countenance 
So sank into my heart, that I beheld 
The httle corpses with a kind of joy, 
Assured by that compassionate Angel's smile 
That they had gone to heaven. 

MAGDALENE {recovering from her swoon.) 
'Tiscold! cold! cold! 
Colder than any living thing can bear ! 
— Have I been visiting my parents' grave, 
And fainted on a tomb-stone ? Who lies here ? 
— Frankfort, what ails thee? 

ISABEL. 

Magdalene ! Magdalene ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Art thou the shadow of a blessed friend 
Still living on the earth ? 

ISABEL. 

These tomb-stones tell-^ 
And all these pale and mortal visages— 

MAGDALEKE. 

Is there a fiineral ? 

WILMOT. 

Once I had a brother, 
But we have come to lay him in his grave ! 

MAGDALENE. 

No more ! no more ! 

PKIEST. 

The darkness leaves her brsun ! 

MAGDALENE. 

All pain, all sorrow, and all earthly fear, 
Have left me now, and ye behold me lying 
In a deep joy beyond all happiness ! 
This corpse is beautiful, but 'tis only dust. 
And with this last embrace it is forgotten, 
And no more is among my dying thoughts. 

PRIEST. 

How her face kindles with the parting soul ! 

MAGDALENE. 

O gracious God ! how sweet ! how most de- 

hghtful 
To fade away into eternity 
With a clear soul ! — So have I seen the shore — 
The soft green shore of my own native lake 
'Mid sunshine blended with the sleeping waters. 
In unobserved union fair and still ! 
blessed lake ! — think of me, Isabel, 
When thou art walking with that happy child 
Through its birch woods, or by yon whispering 

pines — 
Farewell ! that image — Isabel ! farewell ! 

WILMOT. 

So clear a voice can ne'er be that of death! 
She is recovering. 

MAGDALENE. 

Isabel ! look there ! 
Are those my parents smihng at my side ? 
40 



Fold your wings over me — gone — gone to heaven 

Are the bright Seraphs ! — Christ receive my 

soul ! [She dies 

PRIEST. 

An Angel's pen must write thy epitaph. 

WILMOT. 

Awful seems human nature in the tears 
That old age weeps. 



Forgive such tears ! — So young. 
So beautiful amid the opening world. 
Who would not weep for them ! 

ISABEL. 

The world ^vill weep, 
All the wide world will weep ! — I have been 

sitting 
On a high cloud above this woeful city, 
With a bright angel at my side. She falls 
Down from that sunny region, and my soul 
Is wandering now in hopeless solitude 
Through miseries once seen far below my feet. 



Oh ! hers will be a memorable name, 
Famous in this city — over all the isle 
Devoutly breathed in hymns, and oft invoked 
In lofty songs and odes to charity, — 
Sacred to childhood in its waking dreams, 
By love — and sorrow — and pity saved for ever 
From dark oblivion, Uke the holy name 
Of tutelary Saint. 



Ay ! it will live 
Among her native mountains — to all hearts 
Familiar music, and the holy house 
Where she was born will oft be visited 
By mute adorers, and its very dust, 
When time hath worn the lowly walls away, 
Untrod be held in endless reverence. 
Not unforgotten in our shepherds' songs 
The maid who far-off perished in the Plague. 
The glens so well-beloved will oft repeat 
The echo of her name ; and all in white 
An Angel will be seen to walk the valleys, 
Smiling with a face too beauteous to be fear'd 
On lonely maiden walking home at night 
Across the ihoonhght hills. 



O faithful Isabel \ 
Is not this churchyard now a place of peace ? 

ISABEL. 

Of perfect peace. My spirit looks with eyes 
Into the world to come. There Magdalene sits 
With those she loved on earth. O mortal body, 
In faded beauty stretch'd upon the dust, 
I love thee still as if thou wert a soul. 

PRIEST. 

Friends, let us lift the body. 

ISABEL. 

In my arms. 



314 



JOHN WILSON. 



Upon my bosom — close unto my heart 
Thus do I lift my Magdalene to her grave '. 
I kiss her brow — her cheeks — her lips — her eye- 
lids— 
Her most delightful hair '. — I twine my arms 
Around her blessed neck — cold, cold as ice ! 
I feel her whole frame in my sorrowful spirit. 

PEIEST. 

Wilmot ! assist our friend. 

wiLMOT (starting.) 

The sound of waves 
Came for one moment o'er my friendless soul. 



might I go to sleep within the grave 

With one so beautiful ! No ghost would come 

To frighten me on such a breast as this. 

The church-yard even at midnight would appear 

A place where one might sleep with happy 

dreams 
Where such an angel lay. Oh might I die 
Singing the hymn last night I heard her sing, 
And go with her to heaven ! 



Heaven bless the child ! 
Yes ! thou art blest in weeping innocence. 

WILMOT. 

Here is the prayer-book clasp'd ui Magdalene's 

hand, 
Let us kneel down while thy blest voice is reading 
The- funeral- se r vice . 

ISABEL. 

Oh ! that fatal day 
On which we left our cottage ! Magdalene 

smiled 

Oh ! that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake ! — 

PRIEST. 

Are we all prepared to hear the service read ? 

ISABEL. 

All. Come, thou sweet child ! kneel thou at my 
side ! 

Hush ! sob not — for they now are Spirits in hea- 
ven ! 



THE CONVICT. 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A Roam in a Cottage at Lea-side. — The Prison- 
er's Wife, and a Friend sitting together in 

' the midst of the Family. — The day on which 
sentence is to be pronounced. 

WIFE. 

'Tis twelve o'clock, and no news from the City. 
Oh! had he been acquitted, many hundreds 
Would have been hurried hither in their joy, 
Headlong into the house of misery, 



To shout the tidings of salvation there. 
But now that he is doom'd unto the death, 
They fear to bring with black and silent faces 
The sentence of despair. O God ! to think 
That all this long interminable night, 
Which I have pass'd in thinking on two words — 
"Guilty" — "Not guilty!" like one happy mo- 
ment 
O'er many a head hath flown unheeded by— 
O'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss 
Of bright to-morrows — or far happier still, 
With deep breath buried in forge tfulness. 

all the dismallest images of death 

Did swim before my eyes ! The cruel face 
Of that most wicked old man, whom in youth 

1 once saw in the city — that wan wretch, 
The public Executioner, rose up 

Close by my husband's side, and in his hand 

A most accursed halter which he shook 

In savage mockery — and then grimly smiled, 

Pointing to a scaffold with his shrivell'd fingers, 

Where, on a sudden, my own husband stood 

Drest all in white, and with a fixed face 

Far whiter still — I felt as if in hell, 

And shriek'd out till my weeping children roee 

In terror from their beds. 

FRIEND. 

'Twas but a dream. 



No, I was broad awake — but still the vision 
Stood steadfastly before me — till I sank 
Upon my knees in prayer — and Jesus Christ 
Had pity on me — and it came no more. 

FRIEND. 

Full many a sleepless eye did weep for thee 
Last night, and for thy husband. Think it not 
That pity dwells but in the hearts of kindred: 
Even strangers weep — they think him innocent. 
And prayers from many, who never saw his face, 
For him have gone to heaven — they will be heard. 



Oh ! what are prayers, and shriekings of despair, 

Or frantic outcries of insanity. 

Unto the ear of the great dreadful God ! 

Can we believe that prayers of ours will change 

Th' Almighty's steadfast purpose ? Things like 

us ! 
Poor miserable worms ! — All night I cried, 
" Save, save my husband, God ! save my hus- 
band I" 
But back the words return'd unto my heart, 
And the dead silence of the senseless walls 
With horrid mockery in the darkness stood 
Between me and my God. 

FRIEND. 

Yet it is written, 
" Ask, and it shall be given thee." 

WIFE. 

Blessed words! 
And did they come from his most holy lips 
Who cannot he ? 

FRIEND. 

They are our Saviour's words. 



THE CONVICT. 



315 



Joy, joy unto the wretched ! Hear me then, 

Son of God ! while near my cradled infant, 
Sleeping in ignorance cf its father's sorrows, 

1 fall down on my knees before thy face ! 
Hear, hear the broken voice of misery ! 

" Ask, and it shall be given thee !" Holy One ! 
I ask, beseech, implore, and supplicate, 
That Thou wilt save my husband, and hence- 
forth 
Will I an alter' d creature walk this earth 
With Thee and none but Thee, most Holy Being, 
For ever in my heart, my inmost heart. 

FKIEND. 

Is not my friend already comforted ? 



The heavy burden of despair is lighten'd. 
In this my hour of tribulation 
My Saviour's words return upon my heart. 
Like breath of Spring reviving the dead flowers 
In our sweet little garden. 

FRIEND. 

Heaven bless thee, 
A smile is on thy cheek, a languid smile ! 



I know not why I smiled — a sudden gleam 

Of hope did flash across me. — Hark ! a footstep. 



'Tis the dog stirring on his straw. 



Poor Luath ! 
Thy kind affectionate heart doth miss thy master. 
Mary ! the poor dumb creature walks about 
As if some sickness wore him, always wandering 
Round, round the house, and all the neighbouring 

fields, 
Seeking the absent. He will disappear 
For hours together, and come home at night 
Wearied and joyless — for he has been running 
No doubt o'er all the hills, and round the lochs, 
Trying to find his mastei's well-known foot- 
steps. 
Then will he look with dim complaining eyes 
Full in my face, and with a wailing whine 
Goes to his straw, and there at once lies down 
Without a gam.bol or a loving I'risk 
Among the little children. Many a Christian 
Might take a lesson from that poor dumb creature. 
— When Frank comes home — how Luath will 

partake 
The general happiness! When Frank comes 

home ! 
What am I raving of? When Frank comes 

home! 
That blank and weeping face too plainly says. 
" That hour will never be !" Look not so black. 
Unless you wish to kill me with despair. 

FRIEND. 

I wish'd not to appear so sorrowful. 
Within the silent grave my husband sleeps, 
And I am reconciled unto the doom 



Of widowhood — this Babe doth reconcile me. 
But tliine is lying in the fearful darkness 
Of an uncertain fate — and now I feel 
A beating at my heart — a cold sick flutter 
That sends this black expression to my face, 
Although it nothing mean. 

Vv'IFE. 

that some bird, 
Some beautiful bird, with soft and purple feathers, 
Would sail into this room, in silence floating 
All around these blessed walls, with the boon of 

hfe 
Beneath its outspread wings — a holy letter, 
In mercy written by an angel's hand, 
In bright words speaking of deliverance ! 
— 'A raven ! hear that dismal raven croak 
Of death and judgment ! See the Demon sitting 
On the green before the window — croak, croak 

croak I 
'Tis the Evil- One in likeness of that bird, 
Enjoying there my mortal misery ! 

BOY, 

'Tis not a raven, mother — the tame crow 
Of cousin William, that comes hopping here 
With its dipt wings — ay, almost every day — 
My father himself oft fed that bird, and put it 
Upon my head, where it would sit and caw, 
And flutter with its wings, — and all the while 
My father laugh' d — it was so comical, 
He said, to see that black and sooty crow 
Sitting on my white hair. 



Your father laugh'd ! 
[Laughing herself hysterically 



Oh ! that he were come back from prison- 
mother I 
Last night I fought a boy who said in sport 
That my father would be hang'd. 



The little wretch ! 



What did he say ? 



That my father would be hang'd! 



O God ! the senseless child did speak the truth ! 
He hath heard his parents talking of the trial, 
And in careless levity repeated 
The shocking words — ay — laughing all the while, 
Then running to his play — perhaps intending 
To ask the master for a hohday 
To see the execution. Cursed brat! 
What place is sacred held from cruelty, 
When it doth leer within an infant's eyes 
And harden his glad heart ! 



I beat him, mother. 
He is a lying boy — he ne'er speaks truth — 
And when my father is corns home again, 
I will ask him if he recollects that saying! 
No, I will look at him, and pass him by 



316 



JOHN WILSON. 



With a proud smiling face — I will forgive him 
And shake hands with him in my happiness. 



The sun is shining — children, go to play 
For an hour out-of-doors. 



Come, sisters — come ! 
We will go out-of-doors — but not to play. 
Come to the little green-plat in the wood, 
And say our prayers together for our father. 
Then if we play — 'twill be some gentle game, 
And all the while we will think upon our father 
Coming out of that dark cell. — Come, sisters — 
come ! 



Children so good as these must not be orphans ! 
Yet I am glad to see thy sou! prepared 
Even for the worst. 



My soul prepared for the worst ! 
No ; that can never be — (goes to the window) — A 

cloud of thunder 
Is hanging o'er the city I black as night ! 
I hear it rumbling — what a hollow growl ! 
O dreadful building, where the Judge is sitting 
In judgment on my husband ? All the darkness 
Of the disturbed heaven is on its walls. 
—And now the fatal sentence is pronouncing. 
The court at once is hush'd — and every eye 
Bent on my husband. " Hang'd till you are 

dead ! 
Hang'd by the neck!" — As thou dost hope for 

' mercy, 
O savage Judge ! recall these wicked words ! 
For thy own wife who waits for thee at home 
Is not more innocent than my poor husband ! 

IJShe flings herself down on the floor in an 
agony of grief . 



Mercy is with the King — and he is merciful ! 

WIFE. 

What ! what ! do you believe an innocent man 
Was e'er condemned to die ! — To die for murder ! 
—Did mercy ever reach one so condemn'd. 



Yes ! I have read of one wretch pardon' d 
Even on the scaffold — where the light of truth 
Struck, like the sunshine suddenly burst forth. 
And tinged with fearful joy the ghastly face 
Of him who had no thought but that of death. 
And back unto his widow-wife went he, 
Like a ghost from the grave — and there he sat 
Before the eyes of her who knew him not, 
But took him for a vision, and fell down 
In a death-fit of wilder'd happiness. 



Mercy dwells with the King — and he is mercifiil ! 
O bless'd for ever be the hoary head 
Of our kind-hearted King ! — I will away 
And fling myself down before his royal feet ! 
Who knows but that the monarch in his palace 



Will see within his soul this wretched cottage, 
And, like a saving angel, with one word 
Breathe over it the air of paradise. 
— Mercy is with the King — and he is merciful! 



Fortune is blind — but Justice eagle-eyed, 
He will not be condemn'd. 



Give me some water ! 

My soul is faint with thirst ! — Do they not say 
That men upon the scaffold call for water ! 
— " Give me a glass of water!" 'tis his voice — 
My husband's voice ! — No ! he is not condema'd ! 
A thousand voices from these silent walls 
Cry out " he shall not die !" — 

Enter a young Clergyman. 

CLERGYMAN. 

Methinks that God hath shed a calm to-day 
Over the house of mourning. Is it so ? 



Thy presence brings a calm. Oh ! one like thee 
Should bear good tidings. 

CLERGYMAN. 

Last night in his cell 
I saw your husband after his long trial ; 
And sure I am that never did he sit 
Even in this room among his family 
With more composed face, or stiller soul, 
Than he sat upon his bed of straw, 
With fetters on his hmbs. 



Fetters on his limbs f 

CLERGYMAN. 

He felt them not — or if he faintly felt them, 
It was not in his soul — for it was free 
As a lark in heaven. 

WIFE. 

He was not shedding tears ? 

CLERGYMAN. 

No — with a calm and quiet face he look'd at me, 
And in his eyes there was a steadfast light 
By grief unclouded, and undimm'd ty tears. 
So was it while the blameless man was speaking 
Of himself and of his trial : then he spake 
Of those he loved, and as he breathed the name 
Of this sweet farm "Lea-side!" then truly 

tears 
Did force their way, but soon he wiped them off. 
And raised to heaven a clear unfaltering prayer 
For his wife and children — the most touching 

prayer, 
I think, that ever flow'd from human lips I 

WIFE. 

Is there no hope, then, after all, of life ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

Yes ! there is hope — though I am forced to say 
That he doth stand upon the darksome brink 
Of danger and death. 



THE CONVICT. 



317 



I hear thy words, 
And I can bear them ! For my suffering spirit 
Hath undergone its pains, and I am left, 
Even like a woman after travail, weak — 
But in a slumberous quiet that succeeds 
The hour of agony. [She. sinks into a sleep. 

CLERGYMAN. 

My friend ! behold 
How quietly that worn-out wretch doth sleep. 

FRIEND. 

Calm as an infant ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

Even too deep for dreams I 
How meekly beautifdl her face doth smile, 
As from a soul that never had known grief! 
Methinks that God, in that profound repose, 
Will breathe submission through her innocent 

soul, 
And she, who lay down with a mortal's weak- 
ness, 
May wake in power and glory like an angel 
Whom trouble cannot touch. 

Enter the ChUdreii weeping. 

FRIEND. 

What ails ye, my sweet children — but speak 

softly — 
Your raother is asleep. 

CURL. 

O tell it, brother ! 
For my heart beats so that I cannot speak ! 

BOY. 

Whea we were coming homewards down the lane 
That leads from the Fox-wood, that old dumb 

woman 
Who tells folk's fortunes, from behind the hedge 
Leapt out upon the road, before our faces. 
And with that dreadful barking voice of hers. 
And grinning mouth, and red and fiery eyes, 
All the while shaking at us her black hair. 
She took a rope of rushes and did tie it 
Like a halter round her neck, and pull'd it. tight 
Till she grew black in the face '. Then shook 

her hand 
Against our cottage, while my father's name 
Seem'd half pronounced in that most hideous 

gabble. 
Then with one spring she leapt behind the hedge. 
Where, as we ran away, we heard her laughing ! 
And oh ! a long, loud, cruel laugh it was ! 
As if she laugh'd to know that our poor father 
Was DOW condemn'd to die ! 



O wicked wretch ! the silence of her soul 

Is fill'd with cruel thoughts — even like a mad- 
house 

With the din of creatures raving. None can guess 

The wrath of this dumb savage ! 

[The door opens, and the Dumb Woman enters 
mailing a hideous noise, and with signs in- 
timating that some one is to be hanged. The 
Prisoner' s Wife, wakened hy the noise, 
ttarts from her sleep. 



Thou silent, speechless messenger of death '. 
Louder thy dumbness than a roarhig cannon ' 
Away — away — thou fury, from my sight ! 
— God save me from that woman ! or deliver 
Her soul from the devils that torment her thus ! 
[The Children hide themselves, and the Dumb 
Woman rushes out with peals of wild laughter. 
Her face was black with death — a hellish joy 
Shone through her idiot eyes — as if a fiend 
Had taken that rueful body for a dwelling, 
And from these glazed sockets loved to look 
With a horrid leer upon us mortal creatures, 
A leer of unrepentant wickedness. 
Hating us because we are the work of God i 

BOY, 

I wish that she was dead and buried. 



O now that she is gone, hope leaps again 
Within my heart — her hideous mummery 
Must not be suffer'd to confound me so. 
And yet, they say, that she did prophesy, 
With the wild motion of her witch-lilce hands, 
That fatal sinking of the ferry-boat 
In which whole families perish'd. Hush ! I hear 
The tread of feet — it is the Messenger 
Come from the City. 

Enter Messenger with a letter in his haTid. 

WIFE. 

Speak, speak instantly — 
Speak ! Why do you come here unless you speak? 
— His face doth seem composed. 

messenger. 

Poor Francis Russel '. 
Now all is over with him — he is condemn'd ! 



What did he say? — 'Why art thou gabbling thus, 
As none can understand ? — Give me that letter. 

[Tears it open and reads it aloud. 
' ' They have found me guilty, Mary ! trust in 
God." 
{She flings herself down on the floor, and her 
Children lie down crying besidv'ker. 

MESSENGER. 

I cannot bear the sight — good folks* farewell. 



" My Mary, trust in God." I cannot trust 
In God ! — Oh ! wilt thou in thy wrath allow 
My innocent husband thus to be destroy'd? 
I cannot trust in God ! O cursed for ever 
Be all the swarm of idiot witnesses. 
Jury and Judge, who thus have murder'd him;. 
And may his blood for generations lie 
Heavy on their children's souls ! 

GIRL. 

O brother ! see, 
'Tis our poor Father's writing. Yet his hand 
Seems never to have shaken. — Innocence, 
He used to say, did make small children fearless. 
And it will make him happy in his prison, 



318 



JOHN WILSON. 



Till we rush in, and wait till he is pardon'd: 
Which will be — 

WIFE. 

Never will he leave his dungeon 
But for the scaffold. Would that I were dead, 
And all my children corpses at my side, 
Never again to wake — for Mercy is not 
In heaven or earth. There is no Providence '. 

[Covers her face and tears her hair. 

CLERGYMAN. 

These are affecting words from one so good 
And truly pious. But our human nature, 
When touch' d at the heart by Misery's icy 

hand, 
Oft shrieks out with a wild impiety, ( 

Against its better will. Yet that shrill cry 
Is heard in heaven whh pity, and on earth 
Is often follow'd by the calm still voice 
Of resignation melting into prayer. 

WIFE {starling up.) 
Where art thou ? What impenetrable cloud 
Hides thee from justice, thou grim murderer ! 
On whom the dead man's blood, the quick man's 

tears, 
Now call with twofold vengeance ? Drive him 

forth, 
O Fear, into the light, and I shall know him. 
Soon as my eye meets his. His very name 
Will burst instinctively from my big heart. 
And he will answer to it. Where art thou 
With thy red hands, that never may be cleansed? 

FRIEND. 

'Tis five weeks to the day of execution. 
And he may be discover' d — 



Execution ! 
And will they make my husband mount a ladder 
Up to a scaffold ? May he rather die 
Of anguish in his cell! — 'Where are my children? 
—0 they are weeping even upon my breast ! 
—Would they had ne'er been born! — Eternal 

shame 
Will lie upon them ! lovely as they are. 
And good, and pure, and innocent as angels. 
They will be scorn'd and hated ! — Save my hus- 
band, 
Great God of Mercy ! Jesus ! save my husband. 
— many thousand miles of clouds and air 
Lie between me and God ! and my faint voice 
Returns unto the earth, while the still heavens, 
Like the deep sea above a drowning head, 
Mind not the stifled groans of agony ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

I will go to his cell and pray with him. 
He had foreseen his doom, — and be assured 
That he is sitting in the eye of God, 
With meek composure, not in agony. 

THE CHILDREN. 

O take us with you ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

For a while, farewell. 



The wife's heart now is like a heavy cloud. 
But tears will Ughten it — God be with you all ! 



SCENE II. 

The condemned Cell. — The Prisoner in Chains, 
The Prison Clock strikes. 



That was a dreadful toll ! it brings me nearer 
Unto the day of horror. Here am I 
Deliver'd over to the fear of death 
In cold and rueful solitude — shut out 
By that black vault of stone from memory 
Of human beings — and, as it would seem, 
From the pity of my God ! Who thinks on md ? 
The crowd that came to hear my sentence pass'd 
Are scatter'd o'er the City, and my fate 
Is by them all forgotten, or pronounced 
With faces of indifference or of pleasure, 
Among the chance discoursing of the day. 
And yet my silent solitary cell 
Is in the heart of life ! — O joyful sound 
Of hfe and freedom in a rushing tumult 
Sweeping o'er the streets in the bright open day J 
O that I were a beggar, clothed in rags ! 
Prey'd on by cold and hunger — and with wounds 
Incurable, worn down imto a shadow, 
So that I knew not when I was to die ! 
— I hear the blind man singing in the street 
With a clear gladsome voice, a jocund song ! 
What is the loss of eyes ! — Thou bawling wretch. 
Disturb him not ! With what a hideous twang 
He howls out to the passing traveller, 
"A full account of Francis Russel's trial, 

The murderer's confession." Save my soul— 

save me from that hideous skeleton !■ — 

[Dashes himself on the floor. 

The Jailor enters with bread and water. 

JAILOR. 

Look up, my friend — ^I bring you some refresh 
ment. 

PRISONER (staring wildly.) 
Art thou the executioner ? 

JAILOR. 

No. The Jailor. 

PRISONER, 

Is the fatal hour arrived ? 

JAIIX)R, 

I'm not the hangman. 



One single drop of wine ! These two last days 
Have put my blood into a burning fever, 
Yet the thought of water sickens at my heart. 
One single drop of wine. 

JAILOR. 

I must not give it. 

PRISONER. 

O that a want like this should eeera a hardship 



THE CONVICT. 



319 



To one condemned to die ! My wretched body 
With fiery fever wastes my quaking soul, 
And rather would I have one drop of wine 
Than voice of friends or prayers of holy men, 
So faint and thirsty is my very being. 



What must be must. 

PRISONER. 

cold and heavy chains ! 
How shockingly they glitter as they clank ! 

JAILOR. 

You soon will get accustom'd to their weight. 
Observe that ring there runs along the staunchel, 
On the stone floor — so you may drag your legs 
From wall to wall with little difficulty, 
And in a week or two you'll never heed 
The clanking of the iron. The last criminal 
Was but a lath of a man compared with you, 
And yet whene'er I came into his cell 
I found him always merrily at work, 
Back back and forward whisking constantly 
Like a bird in his cage. 

PRISONER. 

Was he set free at last ? 

JAILOR. 

Ay. Jack Ketch set him free. 

PRISONER. 

What was his crime ? 

JAILOR. 

A murderer, like yourself. He killed his sweet- 
heart. 

And threw her, though some six months gone 
with child, 

Into a coal-pit. 

PRISONER (sternly.) 

Leave me to myself. 

JAILOR. 

Why ! Man I wish to be on good terms with 

you. 
I am your friend. What ! many a noble fellow 
Hath in his day done murder; in the name 
There may be something awkward — but the act 
Still varies with the change of circumstance — 
I would as lief shake hands with thee, my friend, 
Ab with the Judge himself. 

PRISONER {eagerly.) 

Dost think me innocent 7 

JAILOR (ironically.) 
O yes! as innocent as any lamb. 
But hark ye! if that I allow your friends 
To visit you at times, you in return 
Will let me show you to the country-people 
On a chance market-day. 

PRISONER. 

O God of mercy ! 

JAILOR. 

There will they etand beyond reach of your arm, 



With open mouth and eyes hke idiots. 
Then look unto each other — shake their heads. 
And crying out, " God bless us !" leave the cell, 
No doubt much wiser than they came — quite 

proud 
To think how they will m'ake their neighbours 

shudder 
At the picture of thy murderous countenance. 
And eyes so like a demon's — we will share 
The money, friend — 

PRISONER. 

The money ! — What of money ? 

JAILOR. 

Why, you are surely deaf — 

PRISONER. 

Give me the water. 

[Drinks eagerly. 
Take — take the bread, that I may die of hunger. 
[The Jailor goes out of the cell. 
I feel as if buned many a fathom deep 
la a cave below the sea, or in some pit 
Cover'd o'er with thorns amid a darksome wood. 
Where one might lie from Sabbath unto Sabbath 
Shrieking madly out for help, but all in vain. 
Unto the solitary trees, or clouds 
That pass unheeding o'er the far^-ofT heavens ! 
Five weeks must drag their days and nights along 
Through the damp silence of this lonesome cell. 
And all that time must I be sitting here 
In doleful dreams — or lying on this straw. 
With nought but shivering terror in my soul — 
Or hurrying up and down with clanking chains 
In wrath and sickness and insanity, 
A furious madman preying on myself. 
And dash'd against the walls. — What spirit 

moves 
These bolts? O welcome, whosoe'er thou art! 
A. very demon's presence in this dungeon 
Would be a comfort. 

The door opens , and the young Clergyman enters 

Son of righteousness ! 
Let me fall down and worship at thy feet. 

CLERGYMAN. 

O man of trouble I put your trust in God. 
Morning and evening will I seek your cell, 
And read the Bible with you. Rise — O rise ! 



Despise me not that on this cruel pavement 
I dash myself down in fear and agony. 
And grovel at your feel ! A pitiful wretch 
Indeed am I ; and to preserve my life 
Would hang my head in everlasting shame, 
Or a lonesome hunger'd in a desert dwell, 
Doom'd never more to sleep. 

CLERGYMAN. 

Unhappy man! 
Say what thou wilt, for I will hsten to thee. 
PRISONER {looking up.) 

Can you not save me I — 'On a quiet bed. 

Surrounded by my weeping family, 

I might have died like other mortal creatures 



330 



JOHN WILSON. 



In awful resignation ; but to stand 
Upon a scaffold in my native parish, 
With a base haher round my abject neck, 
Stared at, and hiss'd at, shudder' d at, and 

scorn' d. 
Put out of life, like a dog, with every insult 
Cruelly forced on my immortal soul. 
And then — O Christ, I hear a skeleton 
Rattling in chains ! — To a madhouse carry me, 
Bind me to the floor, that when the day arrives 
The hangman's hand may strive in vain to burst 
The bolts that chain the Lunatic to life. 
I will feign madness. No — Eternal God ! 
I need' not feign, for like a tide it cometh, 
Wave after wave, upon my choking spirit — 
I am bound to a stake within the mark o' tlie sea. 
And the cold drowning mounts up from my feet. 

CLER&YMAN. 

Send peace, O Lord! unto the sufferer's heart. 

FKISONER. 

Suddenly, suddenly in my happiness 
The curse did smite me. O, my gentle Alice, 
Is the sweet baby now upon thy breast ? 
The Mother and the Infant both will die : 
The dreadful day of execution 
Will murder us all, and Lea-side then will be 
Silent as the grave. O fearful Providence, 
Darken my brain, that I may think no more 
On thy wild ways, that only lead to death, 
To misery, to madness, and to hell ! 
Is all I say not true ? Didst hear him speak ? 
That savage Judge, who, with a hollow voice, 
As if he had a pleasure in my anguish, 
Continued speaking hours most bitterly 
Against a quaking prisoner bow'd with shame? 
He had forgotten that I was a man ! 
And ever as he turn'd his harden' d eye 
Towards the bar, it froze my very heart. 
So proud, so cruel, and so full of scorn. 
I think he might havie wept, for many wept 
When he pass'd sentence on me — but his voice 
Was calm and steady, and his eye was clear, 
Looking untroubled on the face of trouble. 
I did not faint — No — though a sickening pang 
Tugg'd at my heart, and niade the cold sweat 

creep 
Like ice-drops o'er my body— yet even then 
Did conscious innocence uphold my soul, 
And turn'd the horrid words to senseless sounds 
That ought not to dismay — while he that sat 
In pompous robes upon the judgment-seat, 
Seem'd in his blind unfeeUng ignorance 
A verier wretch than I. 

CLERGYMAN. 

We are all blind. 
And duty's brow is stern, and harsh his voice. 
That Judge is famed for his humanity, 
And though no tears were in his solemn eyes. 
They flow'd within his heart. 



What shrieks were these ? 



I do forgive him. 



CLERSYMAW. 

Of a poor criminal 



In the next cell. 

PRISONER. 

Condemn'd, like me, to die?- 

CLERGYMAN. 

No ! doom'd to drag out in a foreign land, 
Unpitied years of misery and shame. 

PRtSONER. 

happy lot ! who would not leap with joy 
Into the ship that bore him to the land 

Of shame and toil, and crime and wickedness. 
So that with all his load of misery 
He might escape from death ! May not I escape ? 
Bolts have been riven, and walls been under- 
mined, 
And the free winds have borne the prisoner 
To the dark depths of safety — never more 
To walk the streets of cities, but to dwell 
As in the shadow of the grave, unknown 
But to his own soul silent as the night ! 

1 feel a wild hope springing from despair ! 
That shadow was not mine that stood all white 
Shivering on a scaffold: — Samson's strength is- 

here. 
And the hard stone to my unwearied hand 
Will crumble into dust. 

CLERGYMAN. 

O let us pray '. 

PRISONER. 

Yes, I will pray ! pray for deliverance, 
And years to come ! O be they what they\may. 
For life is sweet, embitter'd though it be 
With the lowest dregs in the cup of misery ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

Shall we kneel down ? 

PRISONER. 

Ay ! they will dance and dance. 
And smiie and laugh, and talk of pleasant things, 
And listen to sweet music all the night. 
That I am lying fetter'd to the straw 
In dire convulsions. They will speak of me 
Amid their mirth and music, but will see not 
My image in their souls, or it would strike them 
With palsy 'mid their savage merriment, 
Clanking these dreadful fetters in theix ears. 

CLERGYMAN. 

I will return at night, 

PRISONER. 

O leave rae not, 
For I am scarcely in my sober mind. 
A thousand fiends are waiting to destroy me 
Soon as you leave the cell, for innocence 
Is found not proof against the pains of hell, 

CLERGYMAN. 

I will bring your wife to visit you. 

PRISONER (kneeling.) 

God 
Of tender mercies, let thy countenance 
Shine on that wretched one. Let this cell lie 



THE CONVICT. 



321 



Forsaken of thy presence — if thy will — 
But, for His sake who died upon the cross, 
Let heavenly sunshine fall into her soul ! 
Temper the wind to the shorn lamb that lies 
Upon her breast in helpless infancy ! 

! if our cottage could but rest in peace, 
Here could I pass the remnant of my life 
In lonely resignation to my fate. 
Forsake not her and my sweet family. 

CLERSYMAN. 

Man forsakes man — that melancholy word 
Applieth not to gracious Providence. 

PRISONER. 

1 am not then forsaken ? 

CLERGYMAN. 

Fear it not ! 
Wrapt in the dark cloud of adversity. 
Thou art indeed; but clouds are of the earth, 
Lift up the eye of Faith, and thou wilt see 
The clear blue sky of the untroubled heavens. 

PRISONER. 

My soul at once is calm'd — now let us pray. 



PART II. 

SCENE I. 

T/ie Morning of the Day of Execution — The 
young Clergyman and another Friend sitting 
beside the Prisoner, vjho is asleep. 

clergyman. 
He stirs as he would wake. 
friend. 

List ! list ! he speaks I 

clergyman. 
A smile is on his face — a kindling smile. 

friend. 
Oh t when he wakes ! 

clergyman. 
Hearken ! — he speaks again. 
PRISONER {in his sleep.) 
O, my sweet Alice ! 'Twas a dreadful dream ! 
Am I in truth awake ? Come to my heart ! 
There — there— I feel thy breath— pure— pure- 
most pure. 

friend. 
What a deep sigh of overwhelming bhss ! 
Hell gapes for him when he awakes from heaven. 

clergyman. 
Will not the same benignant Providence 
That blesseth now his sleep, uphold him falling 
Into the shadow of death '. 



Weep — weep no more 
Alice ? 

41 



No tears, my Alice I 

! Where is our intant. 



Esther, where art thou? Mary? My sweet 

twins ! 
— I dreamt that I had bid thee farewell, Alice ! 
Why is that loving voice so slow to speak ? 
Hold me to thy bosom lest the curse return ! 
Why beats thy heart so — 



'Lo ! his glazed eyes 
Are open — but methinks he sees us not, 

prisoner (starting up.) 

My family are swept off from the earth. 

— I know not, in the darkness of my brain. 

My dreams from waking thoughts, nor these from 

dreams. 
— Yes! yes! at once 'tis plain. heaven of 

heavens ! 
Thou canst not be in all thy sanctity 
A place so full of perfect blessedness, 
As the bed where I was lying in my dream. 

clergyman. 
We have been praying for thee all the night. 

PRISONER. 

What ! my dear friends I good morning to you 

both. 
Have I been sleeping long ? 

clergyman. 

Since four o'clock. 
And now 'tis almost ei^ht. 



Blest was that sleep 
Beyond all human bliss ! I was at home. 

And Ahce in my bosom Come, my Friend, 

You must not thus be overcome, this hour 
Too awful is for tears. Look not on me 
As on a son of anguish and despair. 
But a Man, sorely stricken though he be, 
Supported by the very power of Sorrow, 
And Faith that comes a solemn comforter 
Even hand in hand with Death. 

clergyman. 

Most noble spirit ! 
Fitter art thou with that untroubled voice 
To comfort us than to be comforted. 

PRISONER. 

This cell hath taught me many a hidden thing. 
I have become acquainted with my soul 
Through midnight silence, and through lonely 

days 
Silent as midnight. I have found therein 
A well of waters undisturb'd and deep, 
Of sustenance, refreshment, and repose. 

CLERGYMAN. 

On earth nought may prevail o'er innocence. 



One night, methought, a voice said in my cell, 
"Despondency, and Anguish, and Despair, 
Are falhng on thee ! curse thy God and die !"— 
" Peace, Resignation, and Immortal Hope," 
A dewy voice replied. It was a dream : 



322 



JOHN WILSON. 



But the good angel's voice was in my soul, 
Most sweet when I awoke, and from that hour, 
A heavenly calm hath never left my cell. 



must we part for ever from our Friend ! 
Is there no hope ? The hour of agony 

Is hastening on, and there is none to save ! 

CLERGYMAN. 

Forgive his grief. ' Tis easier to resign 
Ourselves unto our fate, than to endure 
The sight of one we love about to die. 

PRISONER. 

A little brook doth issue from the hill 

Above Lea-side, and, ere it reaches us. 

Its course is loud and rocky, crying still 

As with a troubled voice. But o'er the green 

That smiles beside our door it glideth on, 

Just like a dream so soft and silently, 

For ever cheerful and for ever calm. 

Last night when you came here— I had been 

thinking 
Of that sweet brook, aind it appear' d to me 
An emblem of my own much alter'd soul, 
Lately so troubled, but now flowing on 
In perfect calmness to eternity. 

FRIEND. 

Thinking of Lea-side even unto the last. 

PRISONER. 

Yes ! I will think of it unto the last, 

Of heaven and it by turns. There is no reason 

Why it should be forgotten while I live. 

1 see it, like a picture on that wall, 

In the silence of the morning, with its smoke, 
Its new-waked smoke slow wreathing up to 

heaven I 
And from that heaven, where through my Sa- 
viour's death 
I humbly hope to be, I will look down 
On that one spot — Oh ! sure the loveliest far 
On the wide earth I too sweet! too beautiful I 
Too blest to leave without a gush of tears. 
— They will drive me past my own door to the 
scafibld ? 

FRIEND. 

Such is the savage sentence. 



PRISONER. 



It is well. 



We never will forsake you to the last — 
But proudly sit beside you — 

PRISONER. 

, Sweet Lea-side! 

And I will see my little farm again ! 
New-thatcii'd with my own hand this very 

Spring — 
All full of blossoms is my garden now, 
And the sweet hum of bees ! — Hush'd be the 

wheels 
As o'er a depth of snow, when they pass by ! 
That Alice may not hear the fearful sound, 



And rush out with the childrea in her arms, 

CLERGYMAN. 

Fear not — she hath gone into her father's house. 

PRISONER. 

I thought our parting had been past. But no ! 
Souls cannot part though parting words be 

breathed, 
With deep abandonment of earthly loves. 
Had I not dreamt that heavenly dream last night 
Perhaps it had been so — but in that dream 
My human nature burst again to Hfe, 
And I think upon my widow as before, 
With love, grief, shame, dismay, and agony. 

CLERGYMAN. 

I am the father, says our gracious God, 
Of the orphan and the widow. 



' Twas a pang ! 
A passing pang ! (Going to the window.) It is a 

sunny day. 
Methinks if I had any tears to shed. 
That I could weep to see the fading world 
So beautiful ! How brightly wilt thou smile, 
O Sun, to-morrow, when my eyes are dark ! 
O 'tis a blessed earth I leave behind ! 

[A noise at the door 

FRIEND. 

It is not yet the tiaie ! 

Jailor enters. 

JAILOR. 

In half an hour 
They will come to fetch the prisoner from his cell 

[Goes out 

FRIEND. 

scowling savage ! What a heart of stone ! 

PRISONER. 

1 think he is less cruel than he seems. 
Sometimes his face hath worn a look of pity, 
And his voice sofien'd ; but his heart is blind 
In ignorance, and harden' d by the sight 

Of unrepentant wickedness, and sorrows 
Which human sympathy would fail to cure. 
He seem'd disturb'd — he feels all he can feel. 

CLERGYMAN. 

Thou art indeed a Christian. 



Death is near. 
You know my heart, and will reveal it truly 
To all who know my tale. The time will come 
When innocence will vindicate itself, 
And shame fall off my rising family 
Like snow shaken from the budding trees in 

spring. 
— They doubt not of their father's innocence? 

CLERGYMAN. 

Unshaken is the confidence of love 

In hearts that know not sin — thy mem.ory, 

Hallow'd by tribulation, will endure 



THE CONVICT. 



323 



PRISONER. 

Enough — enough. Here take this blessed book, 
Which from my dying father I received, 
And give it to my wife. Some farewell thoughts 
1 have dared to write beneath my children's 

names, 
Recorded duly there soon as baptized. 
And now I have no more to say to man. 
Leave me alone a iiitle while — and wait 
In the open street, till I appear before you. 

FRIEND. 

We fear to leave the cell — you look so pale ! 
As if about to faint. 

PRISONER (holding out his hand with a smile.) 
My pulse is steady. 

CLERGYMAN. 

We leave thee to thy God ! 



SCENE II. 

Inside of a Cottage. — The Prisoner's Wife sitting 
with her Friend, surrounded by her Family. 



Speak to me ! let my weeping children speak, 
Although it be with sobs of agony. 



See how composed your sweetest children sit 
All round your knees! They weep, and sigh, 

and sob, 
For piteous they and most compassionate. 
But nature steals upon them in their grief. 
And happy thoughts, in spite even of themselves, 
Come o'er them — the glad light of infancy. 
Mourn not for them — in litile WiUiam's hand, 
Although his heart be framed of love and pity, 
Already see that play-thing! none need weep 
For them a gracious God preserves in bliss. 

WIFE. 

'Tis not on them I think— O God ! O God ! 

friend. 
He soon will be in Heaven. 



Must first be trod. 



WIFE. 

A dreadful path 
O 'tis most horrible ! 



Since that last scene is present to your soul, 
I dare to speak of it. The face of death 
More hideous seems to us who gaze upon it 
Bent towards a friend we love, than to the wretch 
Who sees the black frown fix'd upon himself. 
The fears of fancy are most terrible, 
But when the apprehended misery comes, 
The spirit smiles to feel how bearable 
The heaviest stroke of fate. 

WIFE. 

Thy kind voice seems 
To speak of comfort, though the words are dark. 



Misery's sick soul is slow to understand, 
Yet I will hsten, for that gentle voice 
Brings of itself relief 

FRIEND. 

Calm, unappall'd — 
How many mount the scaffold ! Even Guilt, 
Strong in repentance, often standeth there 
And quaketh JOt. And will not innocence 
Victoriously from that most rueful place 
Look o'er the grave — nor death's vain idle show 
Have power to raise one beating in his heart ? 

WIFE. 

what a dreadful night he must have pass'd ! 

FRIEND. 

Nay — fear it not — the night before they die, 
Condemn'd men enjoy unbroken sleep, 
By mercy sent to their resigned souls. 
Calming and strengthening for the morrow's trial. 
While we were weeping — his closed eyes were 

dry, 
And his soul hush'd in deep forgetfulness. 

WIFE. 

1 feel as if I ne'er shall sleep again ! 

The look with which he flung his body down 
On the stone-floor, when I was carried from him, 
Will never pass away. O that sweet face 
Was changed indeed by nature's agony, 
Sunk, fallen, hollow, bloodless, and convulsed! 

FRIEND. 

strive to think on other prison-hours, 
When on your knees together, lost in prayer, 
You seem'd two happy Beings offering up 
Thanksgiving, rather than poor suppliants 
Imploring resignation to your doom. 

WIFE. 

No. I will think but of that desperate hour 
When darkness fell between us, there to brood 
Until we meet in heaven. Come near to me, 
For I must tell thee how my husband look'd 
When wicked men did (ear those two asunder 
Whom God, and love, and nature had united. 

FRIEND. 

O spare me — spare me — on yourself have pity 
And these soft-hearted ones — too apt to weep ! 

WIFE. 

Why should I fear tp speak ? 

FRIEND. 

Your Infant wakes ! 

Here, take it to your breast — 

WIFE. 

Heed, heed it not. 
— For hours we sat, and dreamt, and spoke, and 

wept; 
Recall'd our happy life to memory, , 

From the hour we first met on yon sunny brae ! 
Our friendship, love, and marriage, — the sweet 

child 
That came to bless our first delightful spring — 
All our sweet children! not forgetting her 
Who went so young to heaven. The Jailor 

came. 



JOHN WILSON. 



Or some one with a black and cruel countenance, 
And changed at once our sorrow to despair. 
We had not thought of parting — in the past 
So buried were our hearts ! — such images 
Blinded our spirits with the tears of love. 
And though we felt a dire calamity 
Brought us together in that hideous cell, 
We thought not what it was ; till all at once 
The prison-door flew open, and they dragg'd me, 
Not shrieking — as perhaps I now do shriek — 
But with a cold weight sickening at my heart 
That in convulsions drown'd a thousand shrieks. 
And brought at last a dark forge tfulness 
Of my own sufferings, and my husband's doom. 
Long streets seem'd passing slowly by my brain, 
And fields and trees — until at once I knew 
The faces of my weeping family. 
And this my Father's house. A dreadful dream ! 
Yet could I wish to rave of it for ever I 

[Her eldest Daushter steals up wilh a book 
in her hand. 

DArGHTER. 

Here is a book which little Mary Grieve 
(She who has wept as much for my poor Father 
As if she were a sister of our own) 
Gave me a week ago, a happy book. 
Which lies below my pillow when I sleep. 
Look at it, Mother! 'tis the history 
Of one reprieved when just about to die. 
I have read it till it seems a sad true tale 
Of all my Father's woe — and when I read it 
Even on the darkest day, beUeve me. Mother, 
A gleam of sunshine falls upon the leaves. 
Straight down from heaven ! There is a picture — 

look ! 
Is it not like ray Father's gentle face ? 

WIFE (grasping the book.) 

As sure as God is in heaven ! it is the same ! 
His wife and children too with eyes and faces 
Of mad delirious joy all fix'd on heaven ! 
And well they may — then and for evermore. 

DAUGHTER. 

I stow'd it to our clergyman — 'he smiled — ■ 
And laid his gentle hand upon my hair, 
And with a low kind voice he bade me hope. 

WIFE. 

He bade thee hope ! 

DAUGHTER. 

Yes — and I thought he wept. 

WIFE. 

He tried to comfort the sweet innocent ! 

DAUGHTER, 

Though I should see my father in the cart 
Passing our very door 

^ WIFE. 

Will he pass our door ? 
I will rush out and clasp him, and beseech 
Kind heaven to let me die upon his breast. 

[Goes towards the door. 
I had forgot — we are not at Lea-side. 
— Corae to me, little Vv^'illiam — weep not child ! 



O yesterday we saw a dreadful sight ! 

DAUGHTER 

William— hold your peace, 

WIFE. 

What saw my little hoy? 



We went last night to meet with Mary Grieve 
Coming from school. And oh ! upon the bridge 
Two men were building up — I did not ask them — 
They told me what it was — and we ran home 
Fearing to look back. 



O shut out the sun 
That bUnds my soul with its accursed hght ! 
Close — close the shutters — that eternal darkness 
May cover me and my poor family. 
And the wild world with all its miseries 
Be blank as if we all were in the grave. 

[The shutters are closed. 



Mother ! let me come closer to your knees ! 



O let the light come in — this silent darkness 
Is worse than light — light is but mocker3'' — 
But darkness is the haunted tomb of death. 
Which shuddering nature never may endure. 
' — I never thought thy face so sad before 
As in that sudden light. — (Clock strikes.) — What 
hour ? what hour ? 

friend". 
Your husband's strife is o'er. 



Praise be to God. 
(Falls on her knees.) Thou that art an angel in 

the sky, 
Strengthen my soul that I on earth may cherish 
Those whom thou lovest — these infants round my 

feet. 



Such prayers go up to heaven — swifter than 
light. 



The body shall have Christian burial ! 

I will away that no base hand disturb it. 

What though it fielt the cruel death of shame, 

Is it not beautiful and fair to see, 

As if he rested from the harvest- toil 

In some cool shady place o'erhung with trees ? 

It shall be dressed with flowers — a thousand 

times, 
A thousand thousand times my lips will kiss it ! 
And when it is laid in the grave at last. 
Oh ! will not tears from many hundred eyes 
Fall on the coffin, and a hundred tongues 
Bless him th' unhappy — him the innocent ? 
— Methinks I can endure the daylight now. 

[She goes to the window 



THE CONVICT, 



325 



Lord ! yon hill-side is quite black with people 
All standing motionless — with heads nncover'd. 
Are they gazing all on him ? Alive ? or dead ? 
This is a sight to drive my soul to madness, 

To blasphemy and disbelief in God ! 

FRIEND. 

1 thought the hour was past. 

WIFE. 

You knew it was not. 
Upon the self-same side of that black mount 
I saw a pious congregation sitting 
Last summer's sacrament ! and now they come 
To enjoy an execution. Wretched things ! 
They little understand the words of Christ. 



It seems in truth most cruel — dreadful show 

Of fixed faces ! many a troubled soul 

Is gazing there, yet loves the agony 

It makes itself to suffer — turns away — 

Then looks and shudders, and with cheeks as 

wan 
' And ghastly as the man about to die. 
Waits for the hideous moment — greedily 
Devouring every motion of his eye, 
Nov/ only bent to heaven. 



senseless wretches ! 
Thus tamely witnessing the guiltless die. 
Rush down upon the scaffold — rend it — crush it 
Into a thousand atoms — tear away 
Th' accursed halter from his innocent neck, 
And send him like a lark let loose to heaven. 
Into the holy light of liberty. 
— One hour delay the execution ! 
For from afar the words of mercy come — • 
I hear them on the wind — "Reprieve — Re- 
prieve" — 
0, gazing multitude ! look grim no more. 
But shout until both earth and heaven reply ! 
Salvation is at hand — ^Reprieve — Reprieve ! 

[She rushes out into the air, followed by her 

Friend and her Children, who endeavour 

to restrain her in vain. 



SCENE III. 
A Field in the Coxmtry — Labourers reposing, 

THE MASTER. 

Come, Mary Macintyre — give us a song, 
Then to our work again. Thou hast a voice 
So sweet that even the Linnet on the broom 
Might take a lesson from thee. 

SONG. 

A bird in Spring had built her nest 
In a tuft o' flowers on a Castle-wa', 

Whare saftly on her bonny breast 
The dew and light o' heaven did fa'. 



Amang the moss and silky hair 

Twa young anes lay-in love thegilher — 

And oh ! their yellow plumes were fair 
When glinting in the sunny weather. 

Upon that Tower for many an hour 

Anither bird would sit and sing. 
Or resting on that red wa'-flow'r 

In sleep would fauld his gowden wing. 

Ae morning at the break o' day 
I saw the nest a' pearl' d wi' dew, 

That like a net of diamonds lay 
Aboon that flower o' freshest hue. 

I could na see the bonnie Bird, 

She cower'd sae close upon her nest, 

But that saft ither sang I heard 

That luU'd her and her brood to rest. 

Sweet through the silent dawning rung 
The pleasure o' that lanely sang. 

And the auld Tower again look'd young 
That psalm sae sweetly saiFd alang. 

Mair sweetly breath' d the birchen grove 
That waved upon the Castle-Hill, 

And a' the earth look'd fresh wi' love 
The moment that the sang was siill ! 

At gleaming I came back that way, 
But I miss'd the flower sae red and sweet. 

And the nest whare thae twa birdies lay, 
Wae's me ! was herried at my feet. 

I wud na weep for the dead wa' -flower, 
Sweet birds ! gin I kent where ye were gane ; 

But the low has blacken'd the auld Mearns- 
Tower, 
And bluid is drapping frae ilka stane. 

And he that herried the lint-white's nest. 
And kill'd the auld birds wi' his sling, 

He wud na spare the chirping breast. 
Nor the down upon the wee bit wing. 



It is an old traditionary song. 

The Maxwells in a body from Hag-Castle 

At midnight came, and burn'd the good Mearns 

Tower, 
With young Laird Stewart and his English Lady, 
And their four pretty bairns. They burn'd them 

all. 

The Lady's blood is still upon the stones 
Of the west corner. Many a blasbing storm 
Hath driven across them, yet they still are red. 
'Tis two o'clock, come to our work again ! 

YOUNG MAN. 

Oh ! I am sick at heart ! this very moment 
Is my poor Master standing on the scaffold ! 
Go, go to work — I will kneel down and pray 
For his departing soul. [Kneels down. 

MASTER. 

His hour is come. 
Men, women, children, now all rush to see him 



336 



JOHN WILSON. 



In his white death-clothes standing hke a ghost! 
Ay, lasses, ye may weep — yet will that crowd 
Show many a female face — girls hke yourselves 
In their best gowns adorn' d for holiday, — 
And vAves that love their husbands — and even 

mothers 
With infants in their arms. Confound their 

cruelty .' 
Enough of death there is in this wide world 
Near each man's fireside, or his neighbour's 

house ! 
Why rush to see him in the open day-light 
Standing with fear, and shame, and agony ? 

MARY. 

Oh ! on that sweet hill-side he often sat 
Watching his young spring-lambs ! and now even 

there 
Is he about to die the death of shame 1 



Methinks I see the hill-side all alive, 

With silent faces gazing steadfastly 

On one poor single solitary wretch, 

Who views not in the darkness of his trouble 

One human face among the many thousands 

All staring towards the scaffold ! some are there 

Who have driven their carts with his unto the 

market, 
Have shook hands with him meeting at the fair, 
Have in his very cottage been partakers 
Of the homely fair which rev'rently he bless'd, 
Yea ! who have seen his face in holier places, 
And in the same seat been at worship with him, 
Within the house of God. May God forgive 

them ! 



He is not guilty. 



Everything is dark. 
Last in the company of the murder'd man — 
Blood on his hands — a bloody knife conceal'd — 
The coin found on him which the widow swore 

to— 
His fears when apprehended — and the falsehoods 
Which first he utter' d — all perplex my mind! 
And then they say the murder'd body bled 
Soon as he touch'd it. — Let us to our work, 
Poor people oft must work with heavy hearts. 
— Oh ! doth that sunshine smile as cheerfully 
Upon Lea- side as o'er my happy fields ! 

[The Scene changes to a little field commanding 
a view of the place of execution. Two Young 
Men looking towards it. 

FIRST MAN. 

I dare to look no longer. — What dost thou see ? 

SECOND MAN. 

There is a stirring over all the crowd. 

All heads are turn'd at once. O God of Heaven ! 

There Francis Russel comes upon a cart, 

For which a lane is opened suddenly ! 

On, on it goes — 'and now it has arrived 

At the scaffold foot. 



FIRST MAN. 

Say ! dost, thou see his face? 

SECOND MAN. 

Paler than ashes. 

FIRST MAN {coming forward.) 

Let me have one look. 

what white cheelis ! see, see — his upward eyes 
Even at this distance have a ghastly glare. 

1 fear that he is guilty. Fear has bathed 
In clammy dew his long lank raven hair. 

His countenance seems convulsed — it is not pale- 
ness. 
That dims his cheeks — but a wild yellow hue 
Like that of mortal sickness or of death. 
Oh! what the soul can suffer, when the Devil 
Sits on it, grimly laughing o'er his prey. 
Like a carrion-bird beside some dying beast, 
Croaking with hunger and ferocity ! 

[He turns away, 

SECOND MAN. 

He is standing on the scaffold — he looks round- 
But does not speak — some one goes up to him— 
He whispers in his ear — he kisses him — 
He falls on his knees — now no one on the scafToId 
But he and that old Wretch ! a rope is hanging 
Right over his head — and, as my Maker liveth, 
That demon as he grasps it with his fingers 
Hath laughter on his face ! 

FIRST MAN. 

How look the crowd ? 

SECOND MAN. 

I saw them not — but now ten thousand faces 
Are looking towards him with wide-open eyes! 
Uncover' d every head — and all is silent 
And motionless as if 'twere all a dream, 

FIRST MAN. 

Is he still praying ? 

SECOND MAN. 

I can look no more, 
For death and horror round his naked neck 
Are gathering ! Curse those lean and shrivell'd 

fingers 
That calmly — slowly — and without a tremble- 
Are binding unto agony and shame 
One of God's creatures with a human soul ! 
— Hark! hark! a sudden shriek — a yell — a 

shout ! — 
The whole crowd tosses Hke a stormy sea. 
But oh ! behold how still and motionless 
That figure on the scaflTold ! 

FIRST MAN. 

What can it mean ? 

SECOND MAN. 

Perhaps with one soul all the crowd rise up 
To rescue him from death. 



FIRST MAN. 



And know what happens. 



Let us away 

Hark ! another shout 



THE CONVICT. 



327 



That rends the silent sky. See, hats are waved ! 
And every face is bright — dehverance 
Is in that peal of joy — he shall not die. 

[Scene cJianges to the place of execution. 

SHERIFF. 

Bring the man up — and let us hear his story. 

[A Soldier is dragged along by the crowd. 



I am tlie murderer. 

ONE OF THE CROWD. 

Here is Stephen's watch — 
The watch of the murder' d man — and his very 

purse — 
Both found upon the villain. 



'Tis strong proof. 
—What have you got to say against this charge ? 

SOLDIER. 

I robb'd and murder'd him — that's all — 'tis true. 

ONE OF THE CROWD. 

Just as the prisoner rose up from his knees, 
This soldier at my side took out his watch, 
And with a cruel and unchristian oath 
Proclaim'd the hour, in laughing mockery. 
My eye by chance fell on it — and the truth 
Burst on my soul. I leapt upon the wretch, 
And with a horrid cry he made confession 
That he was the guilty man. 

"* SHERIFF. 

Scarce credible. 

SOLDIER. 

'Tis true. Last night I saw the Evil- One 

In human shape as I sat among my comrades ; 

He stood close to my side — invisible ' 

To all but me — and with a fiery eye 

He then commanded me to go this day 

And see the execution. So I came ! 

— And now behold the open gates of hell '. 

SHERIFF. 

The execution cannot thus proceed. 



A little while — but yet a little while— 
And I will come into the roaring pit 
To dwell for ever with the damn'd ! 

ONE OF THE CROWD. 

Mad— Mad. 



Ay '. 'tis the madness of despair and guilt. 
Unhalter yon poor wretch — he must be carried 
Back to his prison — till the truth appear. 
[The Prisoner's Wife, accompanied hy her 
Friend and Children , rush through the crowd. 



Come down — come down — my husband ! from 
the scafTold. 



— Christ ! art thou alive — or dead with fear! 
Let me leap up with one bound to his side, 
And strain him to my bosom till our souls 
Are mix'd hke rushing waters. 
Dost hear thy Alice ? Come down from the 

scEiffold, 
And walk upon the green and flowery earth 
With me, thy wife, in everlasting joy ! 

[She tries to move forward, but falls down in a 
fainting-fit. 

ONE OF THE CROWD. 

See — see his little daughter ! how she tears 
The covering from his eyes — unbinds the halter — ■ 
Leaps up to his bosom — and with sobs is kissing 
His pale fix'd face. "I am thy daughter — Fa- 
ther !" 
But there he stands — as hfeless as a stone — 
Nor sees — nor feels — nor hears — his soul seema 

gone 
Upon a dismal travel ! 

[The Prisoner is led down from the scaffold, with 
his daughter held unconsciously in his arms. 

PRISONER. 

Must this wild dream be all dreamt o'er again! 
Who put this little Child into my arms ? My wife 
Lying dead ! — Thy judgments, Heaven ! are 
terrible. 

THE CLERGYMAN. 

Look up — this world is shining out once more 
In welcome to thy soul recall' d from death. 

PRISONER. 

Oh ! might that be— but this is not a dream 
From which I may awake. — 'What, what has 
happened ? 

CLERGYMAN. 

The murderer is discovered. 

[The Prisoner falls on his knees, and his wife who 
has re'covered, goes and k?ieels by his side. 

CLERGYMAN. 

Crowd not so round them — ^let the glad fresh air 
Enter into their souls. 

PRISONER. 

Alice I one word ! 
Let me hear thy voice assuring me of life. 
Ah me ! that soft cheek brings me by its touch 
From the black, dizzy, roaring brink of death, 
At once into the heart of happiness ! 
— Gasping with gratitude ! she cannot speak. 



I never shall smile more — but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps, and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my soul 
To the great God of Mercy ! 

PRISONER {starting up.) 
O thou bright angel with that golden hair; 
Scattering thy smiles like sunshine through the 

hght. 
Art thou my own sweet Daughter! Come, my 

Child, 



328 



JOHN WILSON, 



Come dancing on into thy Father's soul! 
Come with those big tears sparkling on thy cheeks, 
And let me drink them with a thousand kisses. 
— That laugh hath fill'd the silent world with joy ! 

CHILB. 

This night I will sit upon your knees once more, 
— And oh ! if ever I offend my Father ! . . . . 
No — never — never ! — All our Cottage stands 
Just as you left it — the old oaken chair 
Will be fiU'd to-night, — and our sweet hearth 

will burn 
As it used to do — upon my Father's face ! 
— I too will pray — for though a little Child, 
God now will hear my prayers ! 

PRISONER (looking round.) 

The fields and hills 
Have now return' d into their usual shape, 
And all the sunny earth seems beautiful 

As in my boyish days ! Oh ! tell me — tell me — 

Did I disgrace myself by abject fear 

On the way from prison to yon hideous place? 

CLER&YMAN. 

No — thou wert calm 



My friend — say not so. 
For from the moment that I left the prison 
Blind horror seized me — and I thought the earth 
Was reddening round me from the bloody sky. 
I recollect some faces in the cart 
Glimmering ! and something like a bridge we past 
Over a deep glen fill'd with raging thunder ! 
Then all was hush'd — and rose the voice of psalms 
Doleful and wild ! when suddenly I stood 
In the fixed gazing of a million eyes, 
And the feeling of my own identity 
Came like a flash of lightning through my heart. 



Huzza ! huzza ! the guiltless is set free ! 
Lea-side to night, and all its happy fields, 
Shall shine as bright as in the gladsome day, 
For w^e will kindle on yon little green 
A bonfire that shall set the heavens on flame. 
And send up sparkling to the far-off stars 
Beams like themselves — bright with deliverance. 
Huzza ! huzza ! The guiltless is set free ! 

{The scene closes. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

Why hang the sweet bells mute in Magdalene- 
Tower, 
Still wont to usher in delightful May,* 
The dewy silence of the morning hour 
Cheering with many a changeful roundelay? 



* On the first of May the Choristers ascend the beau- 
tiful Tower of Magdalene College, Oxford, and there 
sing a Latin hymn to the Season. 



And those pure youthful voices, where are they, 
That hymning far up in the listening sky, 
Seem'd issuing softly through the gates of day. 
As if a troop of sainted souls on high 
Were hovering o'er the earth with angel melody ? 

This day the pensive Choristers are mute, 
The Tower stands silent in the shades of woe, 
And well that darkness and those shadows suit 
The solemn hush shed o'er the courts below. 
There all is noiseless as a plain of snow. 
Nor wandering footstep stirs th' unechoing wall. 
Hark — hark ! the muffled bell is tolling slow ! 
Into my mournful soul its warnings fall — 
It is the solemn day of Vernon's funeral. 

No sound last night was heard these courts within. 
Save sleepless scholar sobbing in his cell ; 
For mirth had seem'd a sacrilegious sin 
Against the dead whom all did love so well. 
Only at evening-prayer the holy swell 
Of organ at the close of service sent 
(While on their knees the awe-struck weepers fell, 
Or on the pillar'd shade in anguish leant) 
Through the dim echoing aisle a sorrowful lament. 

All night the melancholy moonshine slept 
O'er the lone chamber where his corpse was laid : 
Amid the sighing groves the cold dews wept, 
And the sad stars, in glimmering beams array'd 
In heaven, seem'd mourning o'er the parted shad^ 
Of him who knew the nature and the name 
Of every orb to human ken display'd, 
Whether on silent throne a steadfast flame, 
Or roll'd in music round the Universal Frame. 

And now the day looks mournful as the night, 
For all o'er heaven black clouds begin to roll, 
Through which the dim sun streams a fitful light 
In sympathy with man's desponding soul. 
Is nought around but images of dole ! 
The distant towers a kindred sorrow breathe, 
Struck 'mid their own groves by that dismal toll; 
And the grey cloisters, coldly -stretch'd beneath, 
Hush'd in profounder calm confess'd the power 
of death. 

Sad for the glory that had parted thence. 
Through spire, tower, temple, theatre, and dome, 
Mourns Oxford in her old magnificence, 
Sublimely silent 'mid the sunless gloom. 
But chief one College weeps her favourite's 

doom — 
All hearts turn thither in the calm of morn; 
Silent she standeth like one mighty tomb, 
In reverend beauty — desolate — forlorn — 
For her refulgent star is all-untimely shorn. 

Her courts grow darker as the hour draws near 
When that blest corpse shall sink for evermore, 
Let down by loving hands to dungeon drear, 
From the glad world of sunshine cover'd o'er 
By the damp pavement of the silent floor! 
— Sad all around — as when a gentle day 
All dimly riseth o'er a wreck-strewn shore. 
When Love at last hath ceased to Heaven to pray, 
And Grief hath wept her fill, and Hope turn'd 
sick away. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



329 



Vea ! even a careless stranger might perceive 
That death and sorrow rule this doleful place — 
Passing along the grey-hair'd menials grieve, 
Nor is it hard a tender gloom to trace 
On the young chorister's sunshiny face, 
While slow returning from the mournful room 
Of friends v/here they were weeping o'er the 

days 
With Vernon pass'd — profoundly simk in gloom 
The pale-faced scholar walks, still dreaming of 

the tomb. 

Now ghastly sight and lowly- whispering sound 
On every side the sadden'd spirit meet — 
And notice give to all the courts around 
Of doleful preparation — the rude feet 
Of death's hired meiyals through this calm retreat 
With careless tread are hurrying to and fro — 
And loving hearts with pangs of anguish beat, 
To see the cloisters blackening all below 
With rueful sable plumes — a ghastly funeral- 
show. 

— Come, let us now with silent feet ascend 
The stair that leads up to yon ancient tower — 
— There, lieth in his shroud my dearest friend ! 
Oh ! that the breath of sighs, the dewy shower 
Stream'd from so many eye-lids had the power 
Gently to stir, and raise up from its bed 
The broken stalk of that consummate flower ! 
Nought may restore the odours once when shed. 
That sunshine smiles in vain — it wakens not the 
dead ! 

Behold ! his parents kneeling side by side, 
Still as the body that is sleeping there ! 
Far off were they when their sweet Henry died. 
At once they fell from bliss into despair. 
What sorrows slumber in that silvery hair ! 
The old man groans, nor dares his face to show 
To the glad day-Hght — while a sobbing prayer 
Steals from the calmer partner of his woe, 
V7ho gently lays her hand upon those locks of 
snow. 

He lifts his eyes — quick through a parting cloud 
The sun looks out — and fills the room with light, 
Hath given a purer lustre to the shroud, 
And plays and dances o'er those cheeks so white. 
" Curst be the cruel Sun ! who shines so bright 
Upon my dead boy's face ! one kiss — one kiss — 
Before thou sink in everlasting night ! 
My child — my child ! — oh ! how unlike to this 
The last embrace I gave in more than mortal 
bliss." 

Pale as a statue bending o'er a tomb. 

The childless mother ! as a statue still I 

But Resignation, Hope, and Faith illume 

Her upward eyes ! and her meek spirit fill 

With downy peace, which blasts of earthly ill 

May never ruffle more — a smile appears 

At times to flit across her visage chill. 

More awful rendering every gush of tears 

Shed at the dark echpse of all life's sunny years. 

The whole path fi'om his cradle to his grave 
She travels back with a bewilder'd brain ! 
Bright in the gales of youth his free locks wave, 
Afi ifiheir burnish'd beauty laugh'd at pain, 
4-2 



And god-like claim'd exemption from the reign 
Of grief, decay, and death ! Her touch doth 

meet 
Lips cold as ice that ne'er will glow again, 
And lo ! from these wan lips unto his feet 
Drawn by the hand of death a ghostly winding- 
sheet ! 

She hoped to have seen him in yon hallow' d 

grove, 
With gay companions laughing at his side, 
And listening unto him whom all did love ! 
For she had heard with pure maternal pride 
How science to his gaze unfolded wide 
Her everlasting gates — but as he trod 
The Temple's inner shrine, he sank and died — 
And all of him that hath not gone to God 
Within her loving clasp lies senseless as the clod. 

With tottering steps she to the window goes. 
Oh ! what a glorious burst of light is there ! 
Rejoicing in his course the river flows, ' 
And 'neath its coronet of dark-blue air 
The stately Elm-grove rises fresh and fair, 
Blest in the dewy silence of the skies! 
She looks one moment — then in blind despair 
Turns to the coffin where her Henry lies — 
The green earth laughs in vain before his closed 
eyes ! 

The Old Man now hath no more tears to shed — 
Wasted are all his groans so long and deep — 
He looks as if he cared not for the dead ! 
Or thought his Son would soon awake from sleep. 
An agony there is that cannot weep. 
That glares not on the visage, but is borne 
Within the ruin'd spirits' dungeon-keep, 
In darkness and in silence most forlorn, 
Hugging the grave-like gloom, nor wishing for 
the morn. 

Lo ! suddenly he starteth from his knees ! 
And hurrying up and down, all round the walls 
Glances wild looks — and now his pale hands 

seize. 
Just as the light on its expression falls, 
Yon picture, whose untroubled face recalls 
A smile for ever banish' d from the air ! 
" O dark ! my Boy ! are now thy Father's halls ! 
But I will hang this silent picture there. 
And morn and night will kneel before it in 

despair." 

With trembling grasp he lifts the idle gown 
Worn by his Son — then closing his dim eyes, 
With a convulsive start he flings it down. 
Goes and returns, and loads it where it lies 
With hurried kisses ! Then his glance espies 
A letter by that hand now icy cold 
Fill'd full of love, and home-bred sympathies; 
Naming familiarly both young and old, 
And blessing that sweet Home he ne'er was to 
behold. 

And now the Father lays his wither' d hand 
Upon a book whose leaves are idly spread : 
Gone — gone is he who well could understand 
The kingly language of the mighty dead ! 
— There lies the fluie that oft at twilight shed 



330 



JOHN WILSON 



Airs that beguiled the old man of his tears ; 
But cold the master's touch — his skill is fled, 
And all his innocent life at once appears 
Like some sweet lovely tune that cliarm'd in other 
years. 

But now the door is open'd soft and slow. 
" Tlie hour is come, and all the mourners wait 
With heads uncover' d in the courts below !" 
Stunn'd are the parents with these words of fate, 
And bow their heads low down beneath the 

weight 
Of one soul-sickening moment of despair! 
Grief Cometh deadly when it cometh late. 
And wild a Fury's hand delights to tear 
From Eld's deep-furrow' d front the thin and 

hoary hair. 

His eyes are open, and with tearless gleam 
Fix'd on the coffin 1 but they see it not, 
Like haunted Guilt blind-walking in a dream. 
With soul intent on its own secret blot. 
The coffin moves ! — yet rooted to the spot, 
He sees it borne away, with vacant eyes. 
Unconscious what it means ! hath even forgot 
The name of Her who in a death-fit lies, — 
His heart is turn'd to stone, nor heeds who lives 
or dies ! 

Lo ! now the Pall comes forth into the light 
And one chill shudder thrills the weeping crowd ! 
There is it 'mid the sunshine black as night ! 
And soon to disappear — a passing cloud ! 
Grief can no longer bear — but bursts aloud ! 
Youth, manhood, age, one common nature sways ; 
And hoary heads across the pall are bowed 
Near burnish'd locks where youthful beauty 

plays — 
For all ahkedid love the Form that there decays ! 

List ! list ! a doleful dirge — a wild death-song ! 
The coffin now is placed upon its bier. 
And through the echoing cloisters borne along ! 
— How touching those young voices thus to hear 
Singing of sorrow, and of mortal fear 
To their glad innocence as yet unknown ! 
Singing they weep — but transient every tear, 
Nor may their spirits understand the groan 
That age or manhood pours above the funeral- 
stone. 

Wailelh more dolefully that passing psalm. 
At every step they take towards the cell 
That calls the coffin to eternal calm ! 
At each swing of the melancholy bell 
More loud the sighing and the sobbing swell, 
More ghostly paleness whitens every face ! 
Slow the procession moves — slow tolls that 

knell- 
But yet the funeral at that solemn pace 
Alas ! too soon will reach its final resting-place. 

How Vernon loved to walk this cloister'd shade 
In silent musings, far into the night ! 
When o'er that Tower the rising Moon display'd 
Not purer than his soul her cloudless hght. 
Still was his lamp-lit window burning bright, 
A little earthly star that shone most sweet 



To those in heaven — but nowextinguish'd quite— 
— Fast-chain'd are now those nightly-wandering 

feet 
In bonds that none may burst — folds of the wind- 
ing-sheet. 

Wide is the chapel-gate, and entereth slow 
With all its floating pomp that sable pall ! 
Silent as in a dream the funeral show 
(For grief hath breathed one spirit into all) 
Is ranged at once along the gloomy wall ! 
Ah me ! what mournful lights athwart the gloom, 
From yonder richly-pictured window fall! 
And with a transitory smile illume 
The dim-discover'd depth of that damp breathless 
tomb. 

All hearts turn shuddering from that gulf pro- 
found, 
And momentary solace vainly seek 
In gazing on the solemn objects round ! 
Those pictured saints with eyes uplifted meek 
To the still heavens, how silently they speak 
Of faith untroubled, sanctity divine — 
While on the paleness of each placid cheek 
We seem to see a holy lustre shine 
O'er mortal beauty breathed from an immortal 
shrine ! 

What though beneath our feet the earthly mould 
Of virtue, beauty, youth, and genius lie 
In grim decay ! Yet round us we behold 
The cheering emblems of eternity. 
What voice divine is theirs ! If soul may die, 
And nought its perishable glory save, 
Unto yon marble face that to the sky 
Looks up with humble hope, what feehng gave 
Those smiles that speak of heaven, though kin- 
dling o'er a grave ! 

O holy image of the Son of God !* 

Bearing his cross up toilsome Calvary i 

Was that stern path for sinful mortals trod? 

— Methinks from that calm cheek, and pitying 

eye 
Uplifted to that grim and wrathful sky, 
(Dim for our sakes with a celestial tear) 
Falls a sweet smile where Vernon's relics lie 
In mortal stillness on the unmoving bier I 
Seeming the bright spring-morn of heaven's 

eternal year. 

— Down, dowi^ within oblivion's darksome brink 
With lingering motion, as if every hand 
Were loth to let the mournful burden sink, 
The coffin disappears ! The weeping band, 
All round that gulf one little ,moment stand 
In mute and black dismay — and scarcely know 
What dire event has happen'd ! the loose sand 
From the vault-stone with dull drop sounds 

below, — 
The grave's low hollow voice hath told the tale 

of woe ! 

Look for the last time down that cold damp 

gloom ; 
Of those bright letters take a farewell sight 



* The Altar Piece. 



M I 8 C h] i, L A TS E O U S POEMS. 



331 



— Down falls the vault-stone on the yawning tomb, 
And all below is sunk in sudden night 1 
Now is the chapel-aisle with sunshine bright. 
The upper world is glad, and fresh and fan-, 
But that black stone repels the dancing light, — 
The beams of heaven must never enter there, 
Where by the mould'rmg corpse in darkness sits 
Despair. 

Where now those tears, smiles, motions, looks 

and tones, 
That made our Vernon in his pride of place 
So glorious and so fair ! these sullen stones, 
Like a frozen sea, lie o'er that beauteous face I 
Soon will there be no sohtary trace 
Of him, his joys, his sadness, or his mirth ! 
Even now grows dim the memory of that grace 
That halo-like shone round the soul of worth ! 
All fading like a dream ! all vanishing from earth. 

Where now the fancies wild — the thoughts 

benign 
That raised his soul and purified his heart 1 
Where now have fled those impulses divine 
That taught that gifted youth the Poet's art, 
Stealing at midnight with a thrilling start 
Into his spirit, wakeful with the pain 
Of that mysterious joy I In darkness part 
All the blight hopes, that in a glorious train 
Lay round his soul, like clouds that hail the 

morning's reign ! 

Ah me ! can sorrow such fair image bring 
Before a mourner's eyes ! Methinks I see, 
Laden with all the glories of the spring. 
Balm, brightness, music, a resplendent tree, 
Waving its blossom'd branches gloriously 
Over a sunny garden of delight ! 
.A. cold north-wind comes wrathful from the sea. 
And there at dawn of day a rueful sight ! 
As winter brown and sere, the glory once so 
bright. 

I look into the mist of future years. 
And gather comfort from the eternal law 
That yields up manhood to a host of fears. 
To blinded passion, and bewildering awe I 
Th' exulting soul of Vernon never saw- 
Hope's ghastly visage by Truth laugh'd to scorn ; 
Imagination had not paused to draw 
The gorgeous curtains of Life's sunny morn, 
Nor show'd the scenes behind so dismal and 
forlorn. 

To thee, my Friend ! as to a shining star 
Through the blue depths a cloudless course was 

given ; 
There smiled thy soul, from earthly vapours far, 
Serenely sparkling in its native heaven ! 
No clouds at last were o'er its beauty driven — 
But as aloft it burn'd resplendently, 
At once it laded from the face of even, 
As oft before the nightly wanderer's eye 
A star on which he gazed drops suddenly from 

the sky ! 

Who comes to break my dreams ? The chapel- 
door 
Is opening slow, and thai old Man appears 



With his long floating locks so silvery-hoar ! 
His frame is crouching, as if twenty years 
Had pass'd in one short day ! There are no tears 
On his wan wrinkled face, or hollow eyes ! 
At last with pain his humbled head he rears, 
And asks, while not one grief-choked voice 

replies, 
"Show me the very stone 'neath which my 

Henry lies !" 

He sees the scatter' d dust — and down he falls 

Upon that pavement with a shuddering groan — 

And with a faltering broken voice he calls 

By that dear name upon his buried Son. 

Then dumb he hes ! and ever and anon 

Fixes his eye-balls with a ghastly glow 

On the damp blackness of that hideous stone, 

As if he look'd it through, and saw below 

The dead face looking up as white as frozen 



O gently make way for that Lady fair ! 
How calm she walks along the solemn aisle '■ 
Beneath the sad grace of that braided hair. 
How still her brow ! and what a holy smile ! 
One start she gives — and stops a httle while, 
When bow'd by grief her husband's frame ap- 
pears. 
With reverend locks which the hard stones defile ! 
Then with the only voice that mourner hears 
Lifts up his hoary head and bathes it in her tears ! 

At last the funeral party melts away. 

And as I look up from the chapel-floor, 

No living object can my eyes survey, 

Save these two childless Parents at the door, 

Fhnging back a wild farewell — then seen no 

more ! 
And now I hear my own slow footsteps sound 
Along the echoing aisle — that tread is o'er — 
And as with blinded eyes I turn me round, 
The Sexton shuts the gate that stuns with thun- 
dering sound I 

How fresh and cheerful laughs the open air 
To one who has been standing by a tomb ! 
And yet the beauty that is glistening there 
Fhngs back th' unwilling soul into the gloom. 
We turn from walls which dancing rays illume 
Unto the darkness where we lately stood, 
And still the image of that narrow room 
Beneath the sunshine chills our very blood. 
With the damp breathless air of mortal solitude, 

O band of ro.sy children shouting loud, 
With Morris-dance in honour of the May ! 
Restrain that laughter, ye delighted crowd. 
Let one sad hour disturb your holiday. 
Ye drop your flowers, and wonder who are they 
With garbs so black and cheeks of deadly hue! 
With one consent then rush again to play, 
For what hath Sadness, Sorrow, Death to do. 
Beneath that sunny sky with that light-hearted 
crew ? 

And now the Parents have left far behind 
The gorgeous City with its groves and bowers, 
The funeral toll pursues them on the wind, 
And looking back, a cloud of thunder lowers 



332 



JOHN WILSON. 



In mortal darkness o'er the shining towers, 
That glance hke fire at every sunny gleam ! 
Within that glorious scene, what hideous hours 
Dragg'd their dire length ! tower, palace, temple 

swim 
Before their wilder'd brain — a grand but dreadful 

dream ! 

Say who will greet them at their Castle-gate ? 
A silent line in sable garb array'd, 
The ancient servants of the house v^'ill wait ! 
Up to those woe -worn visages afraid 
To hft their gaze ! while on the tower display'd, 
A rueful scutcheon meets the Father's eye, 
Hung out by death when beauty had decay'd, 
And sending far into the sunless sky 
The mortal gloom that shrouds its dark embla- 
zonry. 

Oh ! black as death yon pine-grove on the hill ! 

Yon waterfall hath now a dismal roar ! 

Why is that little lake so sadly still, 

So dim the flowers and trees along the shore ! 

'Tis not in vernal sunshine to restore 

Their faded beauty, for the source of light 

That warm'd the primrose-bank doth flow no 

more ! 
Vain Nature's power! for unto Sorrow's sight 
No dewy flower is fair, no blossomy tree is 

bright. 

— Five years have travell'd by — since side by side 
That aged pair were laid in holy ground ! 
With them the very name of Vernon died. 
And now it seemeth like an alien sound, 
Where once it shed bright smiles and blessings 

round ! 
Another race dwell in that ancient Hall, 
Nor one memorial of that youth is found 
Save his sweet Picture — now unknown to all 
That smiles, and long will smile neglected on the 

wall. 

But not forgotten in that lofty clime. 

Where star-hke once thy radiant spirit shone, 

Art thou, my Vernon ! 'mid those courts sublime 

The mournful music of thy name is known. 

Oxford still glories in her gifted Son, 

And grey-hair'dmen who speak of days gone by 

Recount what noble palms by him were won, 

Describe his step, his mien, his voice, his eye, 

Till tears will oft rush in to close his eulogy. 

In the dim silence of the Chapel-aisle 

His Image stands ! with pale but life-like face ! 

The cold white marble breathes a heavenly smile, 

The still locks cluster with a mournful grace. 

O ne'er may time that beauteous bust deface ! 

There may it smile through ages far away. 

On those, who, walking through that holy place, 

A moment pause that Image to survey, 

And read with soften' d soul the monumental lay. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD, 

Art thou a thing of mortal birth, 
Whose happy home is on our earth ? 



Does human blood with life imbue 

Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, 

That stray along thy forehead fair. 

Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ? 

Oh ! can that light and airy breath 

Steal from a being doom'd to death ; 

Those features to the grave be sent 

In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; 

Or, art thou, v^'hat thy form would seem, 

The phantom of a blessed dream ? 

A human shape I feel thou art, 

I feel it, at my beating heart, 

Those tremors both of soul and sense 

Awoke by infant innocence ! 

Though dear the forms by fancy wove, 

We love them with a transient love ; 

Thoughts from the living world intrude 

Even on her deepest solitude : 

But, lovely child ! thy magic stole 

At once into my inmost soul, 

With feelings as thy beauty fair, 

And left no other vision there. 

To me thy parents are unknown ; 
Glad would they be their child to own ! 
And well they must have loved before, 
If since thy birth they loved not more. 
Thou art a branch of noble stem, 
And, seeing thee, I figure them. 
What many a childless one would give. 
If thou in their still home wouldst live ! 
Though in thy face no family-line 
Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine !" 
In time thou wouldst become the same 
As their own child, — all but the name ! 

How happy must thy parents be 
Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, 
And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd 
When thy first broken words were heard. 
Words, that, inspired by Heaven, express'd 
The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
As for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow, 
Even while I gaze, are kindling now. 

I call'd thee duteous ; am I wrong ? 
No ! truth, I feel, is in my song : 
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move 
To God, to Nature, and to Love ! 
To God ! — for thou a harmless child 
Hast kept his temple undefiled : 
To Nature ! — for thy tears and sighs 
Obey alone her mysteries : 
To Love ! — for fiends of hate might see 
Thou dwell' St in love, and love in thee ! 
What wonder then, though in thy dreams 
Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! 

Oh ! that my spirit's eye could see 
Whence burst those gleams of ecstacy ! 
That light of dreaming soul appears 
To play from thoughts above thy years. 
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring 
To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! 



M I SC E L i. A N E O IJ 8 P i^: M iS 



333 



And who can tell what visions high 
May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? 
What brighter throne can brightness find 
To reign on than an infant's mind, 
Ere sin destroy, or error dim, 
The glory of the Seraphim ! 

But now thy changing smiles express 

Intelligible happiness : 

I feel ray soul thy soul partake. 

What grief! if thou shouldst now awake ! 

With infants happy as thyself 

I see thee bound, a playful elf: 

I see thou art a darling child 

Among thy playmates, bold and wild. 

They love thee well ; thou art the queen 

Of all their sports, in bower or green ; 

And if thou livest to woman's height, 

In thee will friendship, love delight. 

And live thou surely must ; thy life 
Is far too spiritual for the strife 
Of mortal pain, nor could disease 
Find heart to prey on smiles like these. 
Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright I 
To those thou lovest, a saving light! 
The staff of age, the help sublime. 
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; 
And when thou goest to Heaven again, 
Thy vanishing be like the strain 
Of airy harp, so soft the tone 
The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! 

Thrice blessed he ! whose stars design 

His spirit pure to lean on thine ; 

And watchful share, for days and years. 

Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears! 

For good and guiltless as thou art, 

Some transient griefs will touch thy heart ; 

Griefs that along thy alter 'd face 

Will breathe a more subduing grace. 

Than ev'n those looks of joy that lie 

On the soft cheek of infancy. 

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there 

That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. 

vision fair ! that I could be 
Again, as young, as pure as thee ! 
Vain wish ! the rainbow's radiant form 
May view, but cannot brave the storm ; 
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
That paint the bird of paradise. 
And years, so fate hath order'd, roll 
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. 
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, 
Such as the gladness of thy face, 
sinless babe ! by God are given 
To charm the wanderer back to Heaven. 

No common impulse hath me led 
To this green spot, thy quiet bed, 
Where, by mere gladness overcome, 
la sleep thou dreamest of thy home. 
When to the lake I would have gone, 
A wondrous beauty drew me on, 
Such beauty as the spirit sees 
In glittering fields, and moveless trees, 
Afier a warm and silent shower 
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. 



What led me hither, all can say. 
Who, knowing God, his will obey. 

Thy slumbers now cannot be long : 

Thy little dreams become too strong 

For sleep — too like reahties : 

Soon shall I see those hidden eyes ! 

Thou wakest, and, starting from the ground, 

In dear amazement look'st around; 

Like one who, little given to roam. 

Wonders to find herself from home ! 

But when a stranger meets thy view, 

Ghstens thine eye with wilder hue : 

A moment's thought who I may be. 

Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. 

Fair was that face as break of dawn, 
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn. 
Like a thin veil that half-conceal' d 
The light of soul, and half-reveal'd. 
While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought, 
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought, 
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak. 
Like clouds came floating over thy cheek. 
Such summer-clouds as travel light, 
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright; 
Till thou awokest, — then to thine eye 
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstacy ! 

And lovely is that heart of thine. 
Or sure these eyes could never shine 
With such a wild, yet bashful glee. 
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity ! 
Nature has breathed into thy face 
A spirit of unconscious grace ; 
A spirit that lies never still. 
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will. 
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake 
Soft airs a gentle rippling make. 
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly. 
And water blends again with sky. 

happy sprite ! didst thou but know 

What pleasures through my being flow 

From thy soft eyes, a holier feeling 

From their blue light could ne'er be stealing, 

But thou wouldst be more loath to part 

And give me more of that glad heart ! 

Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence 

The glory of thy innocence. 

But with deep joy I breathe the air 

That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair; 

And feel though fate our lives must sever. 

Yet shall thy image live for ever I 



ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER, 

IN THE FOREST OF DALNESS, GLEN-ETIVE, 
ARGYLLSHIRE. 

Magnificent Creature ! so stately and bright ! 
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ; 
For what hath the child of the desert to dread. 
Wafting up his own mountains that far -beaming 

head ; 
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ! — 
Hail! King of the wild and the beautiful ! — hail ' 



334 



JOHN WILSON, 



■ — Hail ! Ido! divine '. — whom Nature hath borne 
O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the 

morn, 
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain 

and moor, 
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore ; 
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free 
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. 

Up ! up to yon cliff! like a King to his throne ! 
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — 
A throne which the Eagle is glad to resign 
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy 

breast — 
Lo I the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest ; 
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill ! 
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still — 
Though your branches now toss in the storm of 

delight, 
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height. 
One moment — thou bright Apparition ! — delay ! 
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the 



Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, 
The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth : 
In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss. 
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; 
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous 

motion, 
Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean ! 
Then proudly he turn'd ere he sank to the dell. 
And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, 
While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone, 
Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. 

The ship of the desert hath pass'd on the wind, 
And left the dark ocean of mountains behind ! 
But my spirit will travel wherever she flee. 
And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea — 
Her voyage pursue — till her anchor be cast 
In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last. 

What lonely magnificence stretches around ! 
Each sight how sublime ! and how awful each 

sound ! 
All hush'd and serene, as a region of dreams, 
The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams, 
Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven. 
But calm their blue tops in the beauty of Heaven. 
Here the glory of nature hath nothing to fear. 
— Aye ! Time the destroyer in power hath been 

here; 
And the forest that hung on yon mountain so 

high, 
Like a black thunder cloud on the arch of the sky, 
Hath gone, like that cloud, when the tempest 

came by. 
Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and de- 

cay'd, 
Where the floods have been raging, the limbs are 

display'd 
Of the Pine-tree and Oak sleeping vast in the 

gloom, 
The kings of the forest disturb'd in their tomb. 

E'en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold 
O'erhanging the desert the forests of old ! 



So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade- 
Like the heavens above them, they never may 

fade. 
The sunlight is on them — ^in silence they sleep — 
A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep. 
When the billows scarce heave in the calmness 

of morn. 
Down the pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is 

borne. 
And the hill side is swinging, and roars with a 

sound 
In the heart of the forest embosom'd profound; 
Till all in a moment the tumult is o'er, 
And the mountain of thunder is still as the shore 
When the sea is at ebb ; not a leaf nor a breath 
To disturb the wild solitude, steadfast as death. 

From his eyrie the eagle hath soar'd with a 

scream, 
And I wake on the edge of the cliff from my 

dream ; 
— Where now is the light of thy far-beaming 

brow ? 
Fleet son of the wilderness ! where art thou now ? 
— Again o'er yon crag thou return' st to my sight, 
Like the horns of the moon from a cloud of the 

night ! 
Serene on thy travel — as soul in a dream — 
Thou needest no bridge o'er the rush of the 

stream. 
With thy presence the pine-grove is fill'd, as with 

light, 
And the caves, as thou passest, one moment are 

bright. 
Through the arch of the rainbow that lies on the 

rock 
'Mid the mist stealing up from the cataract's 

shock, 
Thou fling'st thy bold beauty, exulling and free, 
O'er a pit of grim blackness, that roars like the 

sea. 

His voyage is o'er ! — As if struck by a spell 
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell, 
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast, 
In the midst of his pastime enamour'd of rest. 
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race — 
A dancing ray chain'd to one sunshiny place— 
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven — 
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven ! 

— Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! 
Magnificent prison enclosing the free I 
With rock-wall encircled — with precipice 

crown'd — 
Which, awoke by the sun, thou can'st clear at a 

bound. 
'Mid the fern and the heather kind Nature doth 

keep 
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep; 
And close to that covert, as clear as the skies 
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little 

lake lies, 
Where the creature at rest can his image behold 
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and 

as bold ! 
How lonesome i how wild ! yet the wildness is 

rife 
Willi the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



335 



The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, 
Whose depihs at the sullen plunge, sullenly 

quake! 
Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, 
And avVay in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 
'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright 

than himself, 
The wild bee is busy, a musical elf — 
Then starts from his labour, unwearied and gay, 
And circling the antlers, booms far far away. 
While high up the mountains, in silence remote, 
The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note, 
'And mellowing Echo, on watch in the skies, 
Like a voice from some loftier climate replies. 
With wide-branching antlers, a guard to his 

breast, 
There lies the wild Creature, even stately in rest ! 
'Mid the grandeur of nature, composed and 

serene, 
And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene 
He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, 
At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their 

haven. 
As if in his soul the bold Animal smiled 
To his friends of the sky, the joint heirs of the 

wild. 

—Yes! fierce looks thy nature, ev'n hush'd in 

repose — 
In the depth of ihy desert regardless of foes. 
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar 
With a haughty defiance to come to the war! 
No outrage is war to a creature like ihee ! 
The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 
As thou bearest (hy neck on the wings of the 

wind, 
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 
In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with 

death. 
In feet that drav/ power from the touch of the 

heath, — 
In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its 

roar, — 
In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no 

more, — 
Thy trust — 'mid the dangers that threaten thy 

reign ! 
— But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? 
On the brink of the rock — ^lo ! he slandeth at bay 
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day — 
While hunter and hound in their terror retreat 
From the death that is spurn'd from his furious 

' feet: 
And his last cry of anger comes back from the 

skies, 
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 
High hfe of a hunter! he meets on the hill 
The new waken'd daylight, so bright and so still ; 
And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll. 
The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul. 
•Tis his o'er the mountains to stalk like a ghost, 
Enshrouded with mist, in which nature is lost. 
Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and 

height. 
In one moment all swim in an ocean of light; 
While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd. 
Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent 

world. 



'Tis his — by the mouth of some cavern his seat — 
The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, 
While the thunder below him that growls from 

the cloud, 
To him comes on echo more awfully loud. 
When the clear depth of noon-tide, with ghtter- 

ing motion, 
O'erflows the lone glens — an aerial ocean — 
When the earth and the heavens, in union pro- 
found. 
Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound — 
As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close 
'Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose. 
He sees, in his slumbers, such visions of old 
As his wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told ; 
O'er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters 

are borne, 
And he starts from his dream at the blast of the 

horn. 
Yes ! child of the desert ! fit quarry were thou 
For the hunter that came with a crown on his 

brow, — 
By princes attended with arrow and spear, 
In their white-tented camp, for the warfare of 

deer. 
In splendour the tents on the green summit 

stood. 
And brightly they shone from the glade in the 

wood. 
And, silently built by a magical spell, 
The pyramid rose in the depth of the dell. 
All mute was the palace of Lochy that day. 
When the king and his nobles — a gallant array — 
To Gleno or Glen-Etive came forth in their pride, 
And a hundred fierce stags in their sohtude died. 
Not lonely and single they pass'd o'er the 

height — • 
But thousands swept by in their hurricane-flight; 
And bow'd to the dust in their trampling tread 
Was the plumage on many a warrior's head. 
— "Fall down on your faces! — the herd is at 

hand !" 
— And onwards they came like the sea o'er the 

sand ; 
Like the snow from the mountain when loosen'd 

by rain, 
And rolling along with a crash to the plain ; 
Like a thunder-split oak-tree, that falls in one 

shock 
With his hundred wide arms from the top of the 

liock. 
Like the voice of the sky, when the black clond 

is near, 
So sudden, so loud came the tempest of Deer. 
Wild mirth of the desert ! fit pastime for kings ! 
Which still the rude Bard in his solitude sings. 
Oh ! reign of magnificence ! vanish'd for ever ! 
Like music dried up in the bed of a river 
Whose course hath been changed! yet my soni 

can survey 
The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day. 
Yes ! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore. 
And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the 

shore. 

I wake from my trance I — lo ! the sun is de- 
clining ! 
And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining, 



336 



JOHN WILSON. 



— 'One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! 
Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, 
Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, 
Or the floor is alive with her white twinkhng feet, 
Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell ! 
— Vanish' d creature! I bid thy fair image fare- 
well 1 



A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 

It is upon the Sabbath-day at rising of the sun, 

That to Glenmore's black forest-side a Shep- 
herdess hath gone, 

From eagle and from raven to guard her Uttle 
flock, 

And read her Bible as she sits on greensward or 
on rock. 

Her widow-mother wept to hear her whisper' d 

prayer so sweet, 
Then through the silence bless'd the sound of her 

soft parting feet ; 
And thought, "While thoti art praising God amid 

the hills so calm, 
Far off this broken voice, my child! will join 

the morning psalm." 

So down upon her rushy couch her moisten'd 

cheek she laid. 
And away into the morning hush is flown her 

Highland Maid ; 
In heaven the stars are all bedimm'd, but in its 

dewy mirth 
A star more beautiful than they is shining on the 

earth. 

— In the deep mountain-hollow the dreamy day 

is done. 
For close the peace of Sabbath brings the rise and 

set of sun ; 
The mother through her lonely door looks forth 

unto the green, 
Yet the shadow of her Shepherdess is nowhere 

to be seen. 

Within her loving bosom, stirs one faint throb of 

fear — 
" Oh ! why so late !" a footstep — and she knows 

her child is near ; 
So out into the evening the gladden' d mother 

goes, 
And between her and the crimson light her 

daughter's beauty glows. 

The heather-balm is fragrant — the heather-bloom 

is fair, 
But 'tis neither heather-balm nor bloom that 

wreathes round Mhairi's hair; 
Round her white brows so innocent, and her blue 

quiet eyes, 
That look out bright, in smiling light, beneath 

the flowery dyes. 



Not all rhe glens of Caledon could yield so bright 

a band, 
That in its lustre breathes and blooms of some 

warm foreign land. 

"The hawk hath long been sleeping upon the 

pillar stone, 
And what hath kept my Mhairi in the moorlands 

all alone ? 
And where got she those lovely flowers mine old 

eyes dimly see ? 
Where'er they grew, it must have been upon a 

lovely tree.'' 

" Sit down beneath our elder-shade, and I my 

tale will tell." — 
And speaking, on her mother's lap the wondrous 

chaplet fell ; 
It seem'd as if its blissful breath did her worn 

heart restore, 
Till the faded eyes of age did beam as they had 

beam'd of yore. 

" The day was something dim — but the gracions 

sunshine fell 
On me, and on my sheep and lambs, and our 

own little dell; 
Some lay down in the warmth, and some began 

to feed. 
And I took out the Holy Book, and thereupon 

did read. 

'■ And while that I was reading of Him who for 

us died, 
And blood and water shed for us from out his 

blessed side, 
An angel's voice above my head came singing 

o'er and o'er. 
In Abernethy-wood it sank, now rose in dark 

Glenmore. 

" 'Mid lonely hills, on Sabbath, all by myself, to 

hear 
That voice, unto my beating heart did bring a 

joyful fear ; 
For well I knew the wild song that waver'd o'er 

my head. 
Must be from some celestial thing, or from the 

happy dead . 

" I look'd up from my Bible — and lo ! before me 

stood, 
In her green graceful garments, the Lady of the 

Wood; 
Silent she was and motionless, but when her eyes 

met mine, 
I knew she came to do me good, her smile was 

so divine. 



"She laid her hand as soft as light upon your 

daughter's hair, 
And up that white arm flowed my heart into her 
bosom» fair ; 
These flowers, by far too beautiful among our I And all at once I loved her well as she my mate 

hills to grow, had been, 

These gem-crown'd stalks, too tender to bear Though she bad come from Fairy-Land, and was 
one flake of snow : ' the Fairy-Queen." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



337 



Then started Mhairi's mother at that wild word 

of fear, 
For a daughter had been lost to her for many a 

hopeless year ; 
The child had gone at sunrise among the hills to 

roam, 
But many a sunset since had been, and none hath 

brought her home. 

Some thought that Fhaum, the Savage shape that 

on the mountain dwells. 
Had somewhere left her lying dead among the 

heather-bells, 
And others said the River red had caught her in 

her glee. 
And her fair body swept unseen into the unseen 

Sea. 

But thoughts come to a mother's breast a mother 

only knows, 
And grief, although it never dies, in fancy finds 

repose ; 
By day she feels the dismal truth that death has 

ta'en her child, 
At night she hears her singing still and dancing 

o'er the wild. , 

And then her Country's legends lend all their 

lovely faith. 
Till sleep reveals a silent land, but not a land of 

death — 
Where, happy in her innocence, her living child 

doth play 
With those fair Elves that wafted her from her 

own world away. 

" Look not so mournful, mother ! 'tis not a Tale 

of woe — 
The Fairy- Queen stoop' d down and left a kiss 

upon my brow. 
And faster than mine own two doves e'er stoop'd 

unto my hand. 
Our flight was through the ether — then we dropt 

on Fairy-Land. 

" Along a river-side that ran wide-winding thro' 

a wood. 
We walked, the Fairy- Queen and I, in loving 

solitude ; 
And there serenely on the trees, in all their rich 

attire, 
Sat crested birds whose plumage seem'd to burn 

with harmless fire. 

"No sound was in our steps, — as on the ether 
mute — 

For the velvet moss lay greenly deep beneath the 
gliding foot, 

Till we came to a Waterfall, and 'mid the Rain- 
bows there 

The Mermaids and the Fairies played in Water 
and in Air. 

" And sure there was sweet singing, for it at once 

did breathe 
From all the Woods and Waters, and from the 

Caves bfineath ; 

43 



But when those happy creatures beheld their 

lovely Queen, 
The music died away at once, as if it ne'er had 

been, — 

" And hovering in the Rainbow, and floating on 

the Wave, 
Each Uttle head so beautiful some show of homage 

gave. 
And bending down bright lengths of hair that 

glisten'd in its dew, 
Seem'd as the Sun ten thousand rays against the 

Water threw. 

" Soft the music rose again — but we left it far 

behind, 
Though strains o'ertook us now and then, on 

some small breath of wind ; 
Our guide into that bright' ning bliss was aye that 

bright'ning stream. 
Till lo! a Palace silently unfolded like a 

dream. 

" Then thought I of the lovely tales, and music 

loveher still. 
My elder sister used to sing at evening on the 

Hill, 
When I was but a little child too young to watch 

the sheep, 
And on her kind knees laid my head in very jby 

to sleep. 

" Tales of the silent people, and their green silent 

Land ! ' 

— But the gates of that bright Palace did suddenly 

expand. 
And fiU'd with green-robed Fairies was seen 3.n 

ample hall. 
Where she who held my hand in hers was the 

lovehest of them all. 

" Round her in happy heavings, flovv'd that bright 

glistering crowd, 
Yet though a thousand voices hailed, the murmur 

was not loud, 
And o'er their plumed and flowery heads there 

sang a whispering breeze, 
When, as before their Queen, all sank down 

slowly on their knees. 

•'Then," said the Queen, "seven years to-day 

since mine own infant's birth — 
And we must send her Nourice this evening back 

to earth ; 
Though sweet her home beneath the sun — far 

other home than this — 
So I have brought her sister small, to see her in 

her bliss. 

"Luhanal bind thy frontlet upon my Mhairi's 

brow, 
That she on earth may show the flowers that in 

our gardens grow." 
And from the heavenly odours breathed around 

my head I knew 
How delicate must be their shape, how beautifiii 

their hue ! 



338 



JOHN WILSON. 



" Then near and nearer still I heard small peals 

of laughter sweet, 
And the infant Fay came dancing in with her 

white-twinkling feet, 
While in green rows the smiling Elves fell back 

on either side, 
And up that avenue the Fay did like a sun-beam 

glide. 

•' But who came then into the Hall ? One long 

since mourned as dead ! 
Oh! never had the mould been strewn o'er such 

a star-like head ! 
On me alone she pour'd her voice, on me alone 

her eyes. 
And, as she gazed, I thought upon the deep-blue 

cloudless skies. 

" Well knew I my fair sister! and her unforgot- 
ten face ! 

Strange meeting one so beautiful in that bewilder- 
ing place ! 

And like two solitary rills that by themselves 
flowed on, 

And had been long divided — we melted into 
one. 

" When that the shower was all wept out of our 

delightful tears, 
And love rose in our hearts that had been buried 

there for years. 
You well may think another shower straightway 

began to fall, 
Even for our mother and our home to leave that 

heavenly Hall ! 

" I may not tell the sobbing and weeping that was 
there, 

And how the mortal Nourice left her Fairy in 
despair. 

But promised, duly every year, to visit the sad 
child. 

As soon as by our forest-side the first pale prim- 
rose smiled. 

" While they two were embracing, the Palace it 

was gone. 
And I and my dear sister stood by the Great 

Burial-stone ; 
While both of us our river saw in twilight ghm- 

mering by, 
And knew at once the dark Cairngorm in his own 

silent sky." 

The Child hath long been speaking to one who 

may not hear. 
For a deadly Joy came suddenly upon a deadly 

Fear, 
And though the Mother fell not down, she lay on 

Mhairi's breast. 
And her face was white as that of one whose soul 

has gone to rest. 

She sits beneath the Elder-shade in that long 

mortal swoon. 
And piteously on her wan cheek looks down the 

gentle Moon ; 



And when her senses are restored, whom sees 

she at her side. 
But Her behoved in childhood to have wandered 

off and died ' 

In these small hands, so hly-white, is water from 

the spring, 
And a grateful coolness drops from it as from an 

angel's wing, 
And to her Mother's pale lips her rosy lips are 

laid. 
While these long soft eye-lashes drop tears on her 

hoary head. 

She stirs not in her Child's embrace, but yields 

her old grey hairs 
Unto the heavenly dew of tears, the heavenly 

breath of prayers — 
No voice hath she to bless her child, till tiiat 

strong ht go by, 
But gazeth on the long-lost face, and then upon 

the sky. 

The Sabbath-morn was beautiful — and the long 

Sabbath-day — 
The Evening-star rose beautiful when day-hght 

died away ; 
Morn, day, and twilight, this lone Glen flow'd 

over with delight. 
But the fulness of all mortal Joy hath bless'd the 

Sabbath-night. 



THE WIDOW. 



The courtly hall is gleaming bright 
With fashion's graceful throng — 
All hearts are chain'd in still delight. 
For like the heaven-borne voice of night 
Breathes Handel's sacred song. 
Nor on my spirit melts in vain 
The deep — the wild — the mournful strain 
That fills the echoing hall 
(Though many a callous soul be there) 
With sighs, and sobs, and cherish'd pain- 
While on a face, as Seraph's fair, 
Mine eyes in sadness fall. 

Not those the tears that smiling flow 
As fancied sorrow bleeds, 
Like dew upon the rose's glow; 
— That Lady 'mid the glitt'ring show 
Is clothed in widows' weeds. 
She sits in reverie profound, 
And drinks and Hves upon the sound, 
As if she ne'er would wake ! 
Her closed eyes cannot hold the tears 
That tell what dreams her soul have bound- 
In memory they of other years 
For a dead husband's sake. 

Methinks her inmost soul hes spread 
Before my tearful sight — 
A garden whose best flowers are dead, 
A sky still fair (though darkened', 
With hues of lingering light. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



339 



I see the varying feelings chase 
Each other o'er her pallid face, 
From shade to deepest gloom. 
She thinks on living objects dear, 
And pleasure lends a cheerful grace ; 
But oh ! that look so dim and drear, 
— Her heart is in the tomb. 

Rivalling the tender crescent Moon, 

The Star of evening shines — 

A warm, still, balmy night of June, 

Low-murmuring with a fitful tune 

From yonder grove of pines. 

In the silence of that starry sky. 

Exchanging vows of constancy. 

Two happy lovers stray : 

— To her how sad and strange ! to know, 

In darkness while the phantoms fade, 

That one a widow' d wretch is now. 

The other in the clay. 

A wilder gleam disturbs her eye : 
Oh ! hush the deep'ning strain ! 
And must the youthful Warrior die? 
A gorgeous funeral passes by, 
The dead-march stuns her brain. 
The singing voice she hears no more. 
Across his grave the thunders roar ! 
How weeps yon gallant band 
O'er him their valour could not save ! 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave, 
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand. 

But far away in cloud and mist 
The ghastly vision swims. 
— Unto that dying cadence list ! 
She thinks the voices of the blest 
Now chaunt their evening hymns. 
for a dove's unwearied wing, 
That she might fly where angels sing 
Around the judgment-seat ; 
That Spirit pure to kiss again, 
And smile at earthly sorrowing ! 
Wash'd free from every mortal stain, 
At Jesus' blessed feet. 

How longs her spirit to recall 

That prayer so vain and wild ! 

For, idly wandering round the Hall, 

Her eyes are startled as they fall 

On her own beauteous Child. 

Gazing on one so good and fair, 

Less mournful breathes that holy air, 

And almost melts to mirth : 

Pleased will she sojourn here awhile, 

And see, beneath her pious care, 

In heaven's most gracious sunshine smile 

The sweetest Flower on earth. 

The song dies 'mid the silent strings, 

And the Hall is now alive 

With a thousand gay and fluttering things ; 

— The noise to her a comfort brings, 

Her heart and soul revive. 

With solemn pace and loving pride 

She walks by her fair daughter's side, 

Who views with young delight 



The gaudy sparkling revelry, — 
Unconscious that from far and wide 
On her is turn'd each charmed eye — 
The Beauty of the night ! 

A Spirit she ! and Joy her name ! 

She walks upon the air ; 

Grace swims throughout her fragile frame, 

And ghstens like a lambent flame 

Amid her golden hair. 

Her eyes are of the heavenly blue, 

A cloudless twilight bathed in dew ; 

The blushes on her cheek, 

Like the roses of the vernal year 

That lend the virgin snow their hue— • 

And oh ! what pure delight to hear 

The gentle Vision speak ! 

Yet dearer than that rosy glow 

To me yon cheek so wan ; 

Lovely I thought it long ago, 

But lovelier far now blanch'd with woe 

Like the breast-down of the swan, 

Then worship ye the sweet — the youn^— 

Hang on the witchcraft of her tongue, 

Wild-murmuring like the lute. 

On thee, O Lady ! let me gaze : 

Thy soul is now a lyre unstrung. 

But I hear the voice of other days, 

Though these pale lips be mute. 

Lovely thou art ! yet none may dare 
That placid soul to move. 
Most beautiful thy braided hair, 
But awful holiness breathes there, 
Unmeet ft)r earthly love. 
More touching far than deep distress 
Thy smiles of languid happiness, 
That like the gleams of Even 
O'er thy calm cheek serenely play. 
— Thus at the silent hour we bless, 
Unmindful of the joyous day, 
The still sad face of Heaven. 



HYMN TO SPRING. 

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! 
Lo ! newly waking from her wintry dream, 
She, like a smiling infant, timid plays 
On the green margin of this sunny lake. 
Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves 
(If riplings, rather known by sound than sight, 
May haply so be named) that in the grass 
Soon fade in murmuring mirth ; now seeming 

proud 
To venture round the edge of yon far point. 
That from an eminence softly sinking down, 
Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape 
A scene of tender, delicate repose. 
Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy, 
Dehghtful Spring ! — nor less an emblem fair, 
Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth. 

On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this, 
Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns 



340 



JOHN WILSON. 



Have sung thy reign, sweet Pov/er ! and wish'd 

it long, 
In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies 
That, lending to the world inanimate 
A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve 
The sanctity of Nature, and embalm 
Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell 
In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll 
The circling seasons, and as each gives birth 
To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft 
Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade 
Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours. 
But Nature calls the,poet to her aid, 
And in his lays beholds her glory live 
For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom, 
When all is dim before the outward eye, 
Nor the ear catches one delightful sound, 
They who have vvander'd in their musing walks 
With the great poets, in their spirits feel 
No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods 
Laden with beauty, and inhale the song 
Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers. 

So hath it been with me, delightful Spring ! 
And now I hail thee as a friend who pays 
An annual visit, yet whose image lives 
From parting to return, and who is blest 
Each time with blessings warmer than before. 

Oh ! gracious Power I for thy beloved ap- 
preach 
The especting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles, 
Struggling with tears, and often overcome. 
A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, 
A balmy spirit breathing tenderness, 
Prepared thy way, and all created things 
Felt that the angel of delight was near. 
Thou earnest at last, and such a heavenly smile 
Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born 
Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun, 
Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, 
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn 
Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky ; 
And when thy feet descended on the earth, 
Scarce could they move amid the clustering 

flowers 
By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, 
To hail her blest deliverer ! — Ye fair Trees, 
How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze ! 
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light 
Fell on you from a rainbow ; but it lives 
Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour 
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds, 
Were you asleep through all the wintry hours. 
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves ? 
There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring, 
Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep 
Abide her annual reign, when forth they come 
With freshen' d plumage and enraptured song, 
As ye do now, unwearied choristers ! 
Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not, 
Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful 
Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side 
Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice. 
Half happy, halt afraid! O blessed things! 
At sight of this your perfect innocence, 
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away 
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams. 



The strife of working intellect, the stir 
Of hopes ambitious ; the disturbing sound 
Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry 
That ardent spirits burn for in their pride, 
Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul 
Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven. 

Now, is the time in some meek solitude 
To hold communion with those innocent thoughts 
That bless'd our earlier days; — to hst the voice 
Of conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine, 
And learn if still she sing the q\iiet tune 
That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel, 
That 'mid the powers, the passions, and desires 
Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts 
Free from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenes 
Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps, 
Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not ; 
Ah me ! with what a new sublimity 
Will the green hills hft up their sunny heads. 
Ourselves as stately : Smiling will we gaze 
On the clouds whose happy home is in the hea- 
vens ; 
Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues 
His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea. 
But dread the beauty of a vernal day, 
Thou trembler before memory ! To the saint 
What sight so lovely as the angel form 
That smiles upon his sleep ! The sinner veils 
His face ashamed, — unable to endure 
The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes !— 

Yet awful must it be, even to the best 
And wisest man, when he beholds the sun 
Prepared once more to run his annual round 
Of glory and of love, and thinks that God 
To him, though sojourning in earthly shades, 
Hath also given an orbit, whence his light 
May glad the nations, or at least diffuse 
Peace and contentment over those he loves ! 
His soul expanded by the breath of Spring, 
With holy confidence the thoughtful man 
Renews his vows to virtue, — vows that bind 
To purest motives and most useful deeds. 
Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day, 
In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts ; 
Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys 
Or sorrows ; meditations long and deep 
On objects fit for the immortal love 
Of souls immortal ; weeping penitence 
For duties (plain though highest duties be) 
Despised or violated; humblest vows. 
Though humble strong as death, henceforth to 

walk 
Elate in innocence ; and, holier still. 
Warm gushings of his spirit unto God 
For all his past existence, whether bright, 
As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun, 
Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea 
Stormy and boding storms ! Oh ! such will be 
Frequent and long his musings, till he feels 
As all the stir subsides, like busy day 
Soft melting into eve's tranquillity, 
How blest is peace when born within the soul. 

And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns, 
O Spring ! to thee, though thou by some art 
call'd 



ISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



341 



Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best 
With festive dances and a choral song. 
No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring ! 
Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs, 
Sees nought bat sadness in the character 
Of universal Nature, and who weaves 
Most doleful duties in the midst of joy. 
Yet knowing something, dimly though it be, 
And therefore still more awful, of that strange 
And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, 
It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smiles 
My soul beholds a solemn quietness 
That almost looks hke grief, as if on earth 
There were no perfect joy, and happiness 
Still trembled on the brink of misery ! 

Yea ! mournful thoughts hke these even now 

arise, 
While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy, 
Sports round me, and all images of peace 
Seem native to this earth, nor other home 
Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain 
Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death 
With every loveliest thing that seems to us 
Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child 
More beauteous than its playmates, even more 

pure 
Than they ? while gazing on its face, we think 
That one so fair most surely soon will die ! 
Such are the fears now beating at my heart. 
Ere long, sweet Spring ! amid forgotten things 
Thou and thy smiles must sleep : thy little Iambs 
Dead, or their nature changed ; thy hymning 

birds 
Mute ; faded every flower so beautiful ; — 
And all fair symptoms of incipient hfe 
To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay ! 

Such are the melancholy dreams that filled 
In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards. 
Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, 

doubts and fears 
Of what might be the final doom of man ; 
Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls 
The language of despair; and, mournful sight ! 
Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave ! — 
Vain fears of death I breathed forth in deathless 

lays ! 

foolish bards, immortal in your works, 
Yet trustless of your immortality ! 

Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards 

Thus daunted by the image of decay. 

They have their tears, and oft they shed them 

too. 
By reason unreproach'd ; but on the pale 
Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile, 
Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O 

Spring ! 
Stealing in beauty through the winter snow ! — 

Season, beloved of Heaven ! my hymn is 
closed ! 
And thou, sweet Lake ! on whose retired banks 

1 have so long reposed, yet in the depth 
Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves. 
Farewell ! — the voice of worship and of praise 
Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve 



Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung ! 
Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain 
Goes with the hand that touch' d it, still retains 
The soul of music sleeping on its strings. 



LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 

Three days ago Lord Ronald's child 
Was singing o'er the m.ountain-wild, 
Among the sunny showers 
That brought the rainbow^o her sight. 
And bathed her footsteps in the light 
Of purple heather-flov/ers. 
But chilly came the evening's breath — 
The silent dew was cold with death — 
She reach'd her home with pain ; 
And from the bed where now she lies 
With snow-white face and closed eyes. 
She ne'er must rise again. 

Still is she as a frame of stone 

That in its beauty lies alone. 

With silence breathing from its face. 

For ever in some holy place ! 

Chapel or aisle ! on marble laid — 

With pale hands o'er its pale breast spread— 

An image humble, meek, and low, 

Of one forgotten long ago ! 

Soft feet are winding up the stair — 

And lo ! a Vision passing fair ! 

All dress'd in vjhhe — a mournful show — 

A band of orphan children come. 

With footsteps like the falhng snow, 

To bear to her eternal home 

The gracious Lady who look'd down 

With smiles on their forlorn estate — 

— But Mercy up to heaven is gone, 

And left the friendless to their fate. 

They pluck the honeysuckle's bloom. 
That through the window fills the room 
With mournful odours — and the rose 
That in its innocent beauty glows, 
Leaning its dewy golden head 
Towards the pale face of tiie dead, 
Weeping like a thing forsaken 
Unto eyes that will not waken. 

All bathed in pity's gentle showers. 
They place these melancholy flowers 
Upon the cold white breast i 
And there they lie ! profoundly calm ! 
Ere long to fill with fading balm 
A place of deeper rest ! 
By that fair Band the bier is borne 
Into the open light of morn, — 
And, till the parting dirge be said. 
Upon a spot of sunshine laid 
Beneath a grove of trees ! 
Bowed and uncovered every head. 
Bright-tressed youth, and hoary age— 
— Then suddenly before the dead 
Lord Ronald's gather'd vassalage 
Fall down upon their knees ! 



343 



JOBN WILSON 



Glen-Etive and its mountains lie 

All silent as the depth profound 

Of that unclouded sunbright sky 

— Low heard the melancholy sound 

Of waters murmuring by. 

— Glides softly from the orphan-band 

A weeping Child, and takes her stand 

Close to the Lady's feet, 

Then wildly sings a funeral hymn ! 

With overflowing eyes and dim 

Fix'd on the winding-sheet ! 

H¥MN. 

O beautiful the streams 

That through our valleys run, 
Singing and dancing in the gleams 

Of summer's cloudless sun. 

The sweetest of them all 

From its fairy banks is gone ' 
And the music of the waterfall 

Hath left the silent stone ! 

Up among the mountains 

In soft and mossy cell, 
By the silent springs and fountains 

The happy wild-flowers dwell. 

The queen-rose of the wilderness 

Hath wither' d in the wind, 
And the shepherds see no loveliness 

In the blossoms left behind. 

Birds cheer our lonely groves 
With many a beauteous wing — 

When happy in their harmless loves, 
How tenderly they sing ! 

O'er all the rest was heard 
One wild and mournful strain, — 

But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird, 
She ne'er must sing again ! 

Bright th'-ough the yew-trees gloom, 

I saw a sleeping dove i 
On the silence of her silvery plume, 

The sunlight lay in love. 

The grove seem'd all her own 
Round the beauty of that breast — 

— But the startled dove afar is flown ! 
Forsaken is her nest ! 

In yonder forest wide 

A flock of wild- deer lies 
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side 

And shades their peaceful eyes ! 

The hunter in the night 

Hath singled out the doe, 
In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright, 

Whose hue was like the snow ! 

A thousand stars shine forth. 

With pure and dewy ray — 
Till by night the mountains of our north 

Seem gladdening in the day. 



O empty all the heaven ! 

Though a thousand lights be there — 
For clouds o'er the evening-star are driven, 

And shorn her golden hair ! 

That melancholy music dies — 

And all at once the kneeling crowd 

Is stirr'd with groans, and sobs, and sighs — 

As sudden blasts come rusthng loud 

Along the silent skies. 

— Hush ! hush ! the dirge doth breathe again ! 

The youngest of the orphan train 

Walks up unto the bier, 

With rosy cheeks, and smiUng eyes 

As heaven's unclouded radiance clear ; 

And there like Hope to Sorrow's strain 

With dewy voice replies. 

— What ! though the stream be dead, 

Its banks all still and dry ! 
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed 

In the air-groves of the sky. 

What, though our prayers from death 
The queen-rose might not save ! 

With brighter bloom and balmier breath 
She springeth from the grave. 

What though our bird of light 

Lie mute with plumage dim I 
In heaven I see her glancing bright — 

I hear her angel hymn. 

What ! though the dark tree smile 
No more — with our dove's calm sleep ! 

She folds her wing on a sunny isle 
In heaven's untroubled deep. 

True that our beauteous doe 

Hath left her still retreat — 
But purer now in heavenly snow 

She lies at Jesus' feet. 

O star! untimely set! 

Why should we weep for thee ! 
Thy bright and dewy coronet 

Is rising o'er the sea ! 



THE ANGLER'S TENT. 



The following Poem is the narrative of one day, the 
pleasantest of many pleasant ones, of a little Angling- 
excursion among the mountains of Westmoreland, 
Lancashire, and Cumberland. A tent, large panniers 
filled with its furniture, provisions, etc. were loaded 
upon horses, and while the anglers, who separated 
every morning, pursued each his own sport up the 
torrents, were carried over the mountains to the ap- 
pointed place by some lake or stream, where they 
were to meet again in the evening. 

In this manner they visited all the wildest and most 
secluded scenes of the country. On the first Sunday 
they passed among the hills, their tent was pitched on 
the banks of Wast-Wator, at the head of that wild 
and solitary lake, which they had reached by the 
mountain-path that passes Barn-Moor Tarn from 
Eskdale. Towards evening the inhabitants of the 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



343 



■valley, not exceeding halfa dozen families, with some 
too from the neighbouring glens, drawn by the unusual 
appearance, came to visit the strangers in their tent. 
Without, the evening was cahn and beautiful ; within 
were the gaiety and kindness of simple mirth. At a 
late hour, their guests departed under a most refulgent 
moon that lighted them up the surrounding mountains, 
on which they turned to hail with long-continued 
shouts and songs the blazing of a huge fire, that was 
hastily Jtindled at the door of the tent to bid them a 
distant farewell. 

The images and feelings of these few happy days, 
and, above all, of that delightful evening, the author 
wished to preserve in poetry. What he has written, 
while it serves to himself and his friends as a record 
of past happiness, may, he hopes, without impropriety 
lie offered to the public, since, if at all faithful to its 
subject, it will have some interest to those who delight 
in the wilder scenes of Nature, and who have studied 
with respect and love the character of their simple 
inhabitants. 



The hush of bliss vi'as on the sunny hills, 
The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky. 
We travell'd in the midst of melody 
Warbled around us from the mountain-rills. 
The voice was hke the glad voice of a friend 
Murmuring a welcome to his happy home ; 
We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, 
And said, " This day no farther will we roam !" 
The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, 
Had surely felt the beauty of that day, 
And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given 
To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay. 
But we, who travelled through that region bright, 
Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, 
From youth had loved the dreams of pure dehght, 
Descending on us through the lonely air, 
When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth 
as Heaven is*fair ! 

Seven lovely days had like a happy dream 
Died in our spirits silently away. 
Since Grassmere, waking to the morning ray, 
Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam. 
I may not tell what joy our being fill'd, 
Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep, 
What beauteous visions lonely souls can build 
When 'mid the mountain solitude they sleep. 
I may not tell how the deep power of sound 
Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, 
When lying 'mid the noise that lives around 
Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall. 
To thee, my Wordsworth !* whose inspired 

song 
Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine, 
To thee by birth-right such high thetnes belong, 
The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine ! 
One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine. 

How leapt our hearts, when from an airy height, 
On which we paused for a sweet fountain's sake. 
With green fields fading in a peaceful lake, 
A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight I 
We felt as if at home ; a magic sound, 
As from a spirit whom we must obey, 
Bade us descend into the vale profound, 



* Mr. Wordsworth accompanied the author on this 
excursion. 



And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day. 

The placid lake that rested far below, 

Softly embosoming another sky, 

Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow, 

And seem'd to send us looks of amity. 

Our hearts were open to the gracious love 

Of Nature, smihng like a happy bride ; 

So following the still impulse from above, 

Down the green slope we wind with airy glide, 

And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's sidOc 

Ah me ! even now I see before me stand, 
Among the verdant holly-boughs half-hid, 
The Uttle radiant airy Pyramid, 
Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy-land. 
As silently as gathering cloud it rose, 
And seems a cloud descended on the earth, 
Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose, 
Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth 
Of every short-lived breeze : the sunbeams greet 
The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay ; 
Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet, 
With gentle glide, as weary of their play. 
And in the liquid lustre of the lake 
Its image sleeps, reflected far below ; 
Such image as the clouds of summer make, 
Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow, 
As slumbering infant still, and pure as April 
snow. 

Wild though the dwelling seem, thus rising fair, 
A sudden stranger 'mid the sylvan scene, 
One spot of radiance on surrounding green, 
Human it is — and human souls are there ! 
Look through that opening in the canvas wall, 
Through which by fits the scarce-felt breezes 

play, 
— Upon three happy souls thine eyes will fall, 
The summer lambs are not more blest than they ! 
On the green turf all motionless they lie, 
In dreams romantic as the dreams of sleep, 
The filmy air slow-ghminering on their eye, 
And in their ear the murmur of the deep. 
Or haply now by some wild-winding brook, 
Deep, silent pool, or waters rushing loud, 
In thought they visit many a fairy nook 
That rising mists in rainbow colours shroud, 
And ply the Angler's sport involved in mountain- 
cloud ! 

Yes ! dear to us that solitary trade, 

'Mid vernal peace in peacefulness pursued, 

Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging 

wood. 
White-flowering meadow, and romantic glade ! 
The sweetest visions of our boyish years 
Come to our spirits with a murmuring tone 
Of running waters, — and one stream appears, 
Remember'd all, tree, willow, bank, and stone; 
How glad were we, when after sunny showers 
Its voice came to us issuing from the school ! 
How fled the vacant, solitary hours. 
By danchig rivulet, or silent pool ! 
And still our souls retain in manhood's prime 
The love of joys our childish years that blest ; 
So now encircled by these hills sublime, 
We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast, 
Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest ! 



344 



JOHN WILSON, 



Within that bower are strewn in careless guise, 
Idle one day, the angler's simple gear: 
Lines that, as fine as floating gossamer, 
Dropt softly on the stream the silken flies ; 
The limber rod that shook its trembling length, 
Almost as airy as the line it threw, 
Yet often bending in an arch of strength 
When the tired salmon rose at last to view, 
Now lightly leans across the rushy bed, 
On which at nights we dream of sports by day ; 
And, empty now, beside it close is laid, 
The goodly pannier framed of osiers grey ; 
And, maple bowl in which we wont to bring 
The limpid water from the morning wave. 
Or from some mossy and sequester' d spring 
To which dark rocks a grateful coolness gave, 
Such as might Hermit use in solitary cave ! 

And ne'er did Hermit, with a purer breast, 
Amid the depths of sylvan silence pray. 
Than pray'd we friends on that mild quiet day. 
By God and man beloved, the day of rest! 
All passions in our souls were luU'd to sleep, 
Ev'n by the power of Nature's holy bliss ; 
While Innocence her watch in peace did keep 
Over the spirit's thoughtful happiness ! 
We view'd the green earth with a loving look. 
Like us rejoicing in the gracious sky ; 
A voice came to us from the running brook 
That seem'd to breathe a grateful melody. 
Then all things seem'd embued with hfe and sense. 
And as from dreams with kindling smiles to wake, 
Happy in beauty and in innocence ; 
While, pleased our inward quiet to partake, 
Lay hush'd, as in a trance, the scarcely-breathing 
lake. 

Yet think not, in this wild and fairy spot. 
This mingled happiness of earth and heaven, 
Which to our hearts this Sabbath-day was given. 
Think not, that far off-friends were quite forgot. 
Helm-crag arose before our half-closed eyes 
With colours brighter than the brightening dove ; 
Beneath that guardian mount a cottage lies* 
Encircled by the halo breathed from Love ! 
And sweet that dwellingt rests upon the brow 
(Beneath its sycamore) of Orest-hill, 
As if it smiled on Windermere below. 
Her green recesses and her islands still ! 
Thus, gently-blended many a human thought 
With those that peace and solitude supplied, 
Till in our hearts the moving kindness wrought 
With gradual influence, like a flowing tide. 
And for the lovely sound of human voice we sigh'd. 

And hark ! a laugh, with voices blended, stole 
Across the water, echoing from the shore ! 
And during pauses short, the beating oar 
Brings the glad music closer to the soul. 
We leave our tent ; and lo ! a lovely sight 
Glides hke a living creature through the air, 
For air the water seems thus passing bright, 
A living creature beautiful and fair ! 
Nearer it glides ; and now the radiant glow 
That on its radiant shadow seems to float, 



* At that time the residence of Mr. Wordsworth's 
family. 
+ The author' s cottage on the banks of Windermere . 



Turns to a virgin band, a glorious show. 
Rowing with happy smiles a little boat. 
Towards the tent their hngering course they steer, 
And cheerful now upon the shore they stand. 
In maiden bashfulness, yet free from fear. 
And by our side, gay-moving hand in hand, 
Into our Tent they go, a beauteous sister-band ! 

Scarce from our hearts had gone the sweet sur- 
prise. 
Which this glad troop of rural maids awoke ; 
Scarce had a more familiar kindness broke 
From the mild lustre of their smiling eyes. 
Ere the Tent seem'd encircled by the sound 
Of many voices ; in an instant stood 
Men, women, children, all the circle round. 
And with a friendly joy the strangers view'd. 
Strange was it to behold this gladsome crowd 
Our late so solitary dwelling fill ; 
And strange to hear their greetings mingling loud 
Where all before was undisturb'd and still. 
Yet was the stir delightful to our ear, 
And moved to happiness our inmost blood, 
The sudden change, the unexpected cheer. 
Breaking like sunshine on a pensive mood, 
This breath and voice of life in seeming solitude I 

Hard task it was, in our small tent to find 
Seats for our quickly-gather'd company; 
But in them all was such a mirthful glee, 
I ween they soon were seated to their mind ! 
Some viewing with a hesitating look 
The panniers that contained our travelhng fare, 
On them at last their humble station took, 
Pleased at the thought, and with a smihng air. 
Some on our low-framed beds then chose their 

seat, 
Each maid the youth that loved her best beside, 
While many a gentle look, and whisper sweet, 
Brought to the stripling's face a gladsome pride. 
The playful children on the velvet green. 
Soon as the first-felt bashfulness was fled, 
Smiled to each other at the wondrous scene. 
And whisper'd words they to each other said, 
And raised in sportive fit the shining, golden head ! 

Then did we learn that this our stranger tent, 
Seen by the lake-side gleaming like a sail. 
Had quickly spread o'er mountain and o'er vale 
A gentle shock of pleased astonishment. 
The lonely dwellers by the lofty rills 
Gazed in surprise upon th' unwonted sight. 
The wandering shepherds saw it from the hills, 
And quick descended irom their airy height. 
Soon as the voice of simple song and prayer 
Ceased in the little chapel of the dell, 
The congregation did in peace repair 
To the lake-side, to view our wondrous cell. 
While leaving, for one noon, both young and old, 
Their cluster' d hamlets in this deep recess. 
All join the throng, in conscious good- will bold, 
Elate and smihng in their Sabbath-dress, 
A mingled various group of homely happiness ! 

And thus our tent a joyous scene became. 
Where loving hearts from distant vales did meet 
As at some rural festival, and greet 
Each other with glad voice and kindly name. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



345 



Here a pleased daughter to her father smiled. 
With fresh affection in her soften'd eyes : 
He in return look'd back upon his child 
With gentle start and tone of mild surprise : 
And on his little grandchild, at her breast, 
An old man's blessing and a kiss bestow'd, 
Or to his cheek the lisping baby prest, 
■ Light' ning the mother of her darling load ; 
While comely matrons, all sedately ranged 
Close to their husbands' or their children's side, 
A neighbour's friendly greeting interchanged, 
And each her own with frequent glances eyed, 
And raised her head in all a mother's harmless 
pride. 

Happy were we among such happy hearts ! 
And to inspire with kindliness and love 
Our simple guests, ambitiously we strove, 
With novel converse and endearing arts ! 
We talk'd to them, and much they loved to hear, 
Of those sweet vales from which we late had 

come; 
For though these vales are to each other near, 
Seldom do dalesmen leave their own dear home. 
Then would we speak of many a wondrous sight 
Seen in great cities, — temple, tower, and spire, 
And winding streets at night-fall blazing bright 
With many a star-hke lamp of glimmering fire. 
The grey-hair' d men with deep attention heard. 
Viewing the speaker with a solemn face. 
While round our feet the playful children stirr'd, 
And near their parents took then- silent place. 
Listening with looks where wonder breathed a 

glowing grace. 

And much they gazed with never-tired delight 
On varnish'd rod, with joints that shone like gold, 
And silken line on glittering reed enroU'd, 
To infant anglers a most wondrous sight ! 
Scarce could their chiding parents then control 
Their little hearts in harmless mahce gay. 
But still one, bolder than his fellows, stole 
To touch the tempting treasures where they lay. 
What rapture glisten'd in their eager eyes, 
When, with kind voice, we bade these children 

take 
A precious store of well-dissembled flies, 
To use with caution for the strangers' sake ! 
The unlook'd-for gift we graciously bestow 
When sudden joy the leaping heart o'erpowers ; 
They grasp the lines, while all their faces glow 
Bright as spring-blossoms after sunny showers, 
And wear them in their hats like wreaths of val- 
ley flowers ! 

Nor could they check their joyance and surprise, 
When the clear crystal and the silver bowl 
Gleam'd with a novel beauty on their soul, 
And the wine mantled with its rosy dyes. 
For all our pomp we show'd with mickle glee, 
And choicest viands, fitly to regale, 
On such a day of rare festivity, 
Our guests thus wondering at their native vale. 
And oft we pledged them, nor could they 

decline 
The social cup we did our best to press, 
But mingled wishes with the joyful wine, 
Warm wishes for our health and happiness. 
4-1 



And all the while, a low, delightful sound 
Of voice soft-answering voice, with music fiU'd 
Our fairy palace's enchanted ground, 
Such tones as seem from blooming tree distill'd. 
Where unseen bees repair their waxen cells to 
build. 

Lost as we were in that most blessed mood 
Which Nature's sons alone can deeply prove, 
We lavish' d with free heart our kindest love 
On all vvho breathed, — one common brotherhood. 
Three faithful servants, men of low degree, 
Were with us, as we roam'd the wilds among, 
And well it pleased their simple hearts to see 
Their masters mingling with the rural throng. 
Oft to our guests they sought to speak aside, 
And, in the genial flow of gladness, told 
That we were free from haughtiness or pride, 
Though scholars all, and rich in lands and gold. 
We smiled to hear our praise thus rudely sung, 
(Well might such praise our modesty offend,) 
Yet, we all strove, at once with eye and tongue 
To speak, as if invited by a friend. 
And with our casual talk instruction's voice to 
blend. 

Rumours of wars had reached this peaceful vale, 
And of the Wicked King, whom guilt had driven 
On earth to wage a warfare against Heaven, 
These sinless shepherds had heard many a tale. 
Encircled as we were with smiles and joy, 
In quietness to Quiet's dwelling brought. 
To think of him whose bhss is to destroy. 
At such a season was an awful thought! 
We felt the eternal power of happiness 
And virtue's power; we felt with holy awe 
That in this world, in spite of chance distress. 
Such is the Almighty Spirit's ruling law. 
And joyfully did we these shepherds tell 
To hear all rumours with a tranquil mind. 
For, in the end, that all would yet be 'vvell, 
Nor this bad Monarch leave one trace behind. 
More than o'er yonder hills the idly-raving wind. 

Then gravely smiled, in all the power of age, 

A hoary-headed, venerable man. 

Like the mild chieftain of a peaceful clan, 

'Mid simple spirits looked on as a sage. 

Much did he praise the holy faith we held. 

Which God, he said, to cheer the soul had given, 

For even the very angels that rebell'd. 

By sin performed the blessed work of Heaven. 

The Wicked King, of whom we justly spake, 

Was but an instrument in God's wise hand. 

And though the kingdoms of the earth might 

quake. 
Peace would revisit every ravaged land. 
Even as the earthquake, in some former time, 
Scatter'd yon rugged mountain far and wide, 
Till years of winter's snow and summer's prime, 
To naked cliffs fresh verdure have supplied, 
— Now troops of playful lambs are bounding on 

its side. 

Pleased were the simple group to hear the sire 
Thus able to converse with men from far. 
And much did they of vaguely-rumour'd war. 
That long had raged in distant lands, inquire. 



346 



JOHN WILSON. 



Scarce could their hearts, at peace with all man- 
kind, 
Believe what bloody deeds on earth are done. 
That man of woman born should be so blind 
As walk in guilt b'eneath the blessed sun ; 
And one, with thoughtful countenance, exprest 
A fear lest on some dark disastrous day, 
Across the sea might come that noisome pest, 
And make fair England's happy vales his prey. 
Short-hved that fear ! — soon firmer thoughts 

arise : 
Well could these dalesmen wield the patriot's 

sword, 
And stretch the foe beneath the smiling skies; 
In innocence they trust, and in the Lord, 
Whom they, that very morn, in gladness had 
adored ! 

But soon such thoughts to lighter speech give 

way; 
We in our turn a willing ear did lend 
To tale of sports, that made them blithely spend 
The winter-evening and the summer-day. 
Smiling they told us of the harmless glee 
That bids the echoes of the mountains wake. 
When at the stated festival they see 
Their new-wash'd flocks come snow-white ftom 

the lake ; 
And joyful dance at neighbouring village fair, 
Where lads and lasses, in their best attire. 
Go to enjoy that playful pastime rare, 
And careful statesmen shepherds new to hire ! 
Or they would tell, how, at some neighbour's cot, 
When nights are long, and winter on the earth. 
All cares are in the dance and song forgot, 
And round the fire quick flies the circhng mirth. 
When nuptial vows are pledged, or at an infant's 

birth ! 

Well did the roses blooming on their cheek, 
And eyes of laughing light, that glisten'd fair 
Beneath the artless ringlets of their hair. 
Each maiden's health and purity bespeak. 
Following the impulse of their simple will. 
No thought had they to give or take offence ; 
Glad were their bosoms, yet sedate and still. 
And fearless in the strength of innocence. 
Oft as, in accents mild, we strangers spoke 
To these sweet maidens, an unconscious smile 
Like sudden sunshine o'er (heir faces broke. 
And with its struggling blushes mix'd the while. 
And oft as mirth and glee went laughing round, 
Breathed in this maiden's ear some harmless jest 
Would make her, for one moment, on the ground 
Her eyes let fall, as wishing from the rest 
To hide the sudden throb that beat within her 
breast. 

Oh i not in vain have purest poets told, 
In elegies and hymns that ne'er shall die 
How, in the fields of famous Arcady, 
Lived simple shepherds in the age of gold ! 
They fabled not, in peopling rural shades 
With all most beautiful in heart and frame ; 
Where without guile swains woo'd their happy 

maids, 
And love was friendship with a gentler name. 
Such songs in truth and nature had their birth, 



Their source was lofty and their aim was pure, 
And still, in many a favour'd spot of earth, 
The virtues that awoke their voice endure ! 
Bear witness thou ! O ! wild and beauteous dell 
To w^hom my gladden'd heart devotes this strain; 
' — O ! long may all who in thy bosom dwell 
Nature's primeval innocence retain. 
Nor e'er may lawless foot thy sanctity profane ! 

Sweet maids ! my wandering heart returns to 

you ; 
And well the blush of joy, the courteous air. 
Words unrestrained, and open looks declare 
That fancy's day-dreams have not been untrue. 
It was indeed a beauteous thing, to see 
The virgin, while her bashful visage smiled, 
As if she were a mother, on her knee 
Take up, with many a kiss, the asking child. 
And well, I ween, she played the mother's part; 
For as she bended o'er the infant fair, 
A mystic joy seem'd stirring at her heart, 
A yearning fondness, and a silent prayer. 
Nor did such gentle maiden long refuse 
To cheer our spirits with some favourue strain, 
Some simple ballad, framed by rustic muse, 
Of one who died for love, or, led by gain, 
Sail'd in a mighty ship to lands beyond the main. 

And must we close this scene of merriment ? 
— Lo ! in the lake soft burns the star of eve. 
And the night-hawk hath warn'd our guests to 

leave, 
Ere darker shades descend, our happy tent. 
The Moon's bright edge is seen above the hill ; 
She comes to light them on their homeward way ; 
And every heart, I ween, now lies as still 
As on yon fleecy cloud her new-born ray. 
Kindly by young and old our hands are press'd, 
And kindly we the gentle touch return ; 
Each face declares that deep in every breast 
Peace, virtue, friendship, and affection burn. 
At last beneath the silent air we part. 
And promise make that shall not be in vain, 
A promise asked and given warm from the heart, 
That we will visit all, on hill and plain, 
If e'er it be our lot to see this land again ! 

Backward they gazed, as slowly they withdrew, 
With step reluctant, from the water side ; 
And oft, with waving hand, at distance tried 
Through the dim hght to send a last adieu ! 
One lovely group still linger'd on the green, 
The first to come, the last to go away ; 
While steep'd in stillness of the moonlight scene, 
Moor'd to a rock their little pinnace lay. 
These laughing damsels climb its humble side. 
Like fairy elves that love the starry sea ; 
Nor e'er did billows with more graceful glide 
'Mid the wild main enjoy their liberty. 
Their faces brightening in triumphant hue, 
Close to each maid their joyful lovers stand; 
One gives the signal, — all the jovial crew 
Let go, with tender press, the yielding hand; 
— Down drop the oars at once, — away they push 
from land. 

The boat hath left the silent bank, the tone 
Of the retiring oar escapes the mind; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



347 



Like mariners some ship hath left behind, 
We feel, thus standing, speechless and alone. 
One moment lives that melancholy trance — 
The mountains ring : Oh ! what a joy is there ! 
As hurries o'er their heights, in circling dance, 
Cave-loving Echo, Daughter of the Air. 
Is it some spirit of night that wakes the shout, 
As o'er the cliffs, with headlong speed, she 

ranges ? 
Is it, on plain and steep, some fairy rout 
Answering each other in tumultuous changes ? 
There seems amid the hills a playful war; 
Trumpet and clarion join the mystic noise ; 
Now growing on the ear, now dying far ! 
Great Gabel from his summit sends a voice. 
And the remotest depths of Ennerdale rejoice! 

Oh ! well I know what means this din of mirth ! 
No spirits are they, who, trooping through the 

sky. 
In chorus swell that mountain melody ; 
— It comes from mortal children of the earth ! 
These are the voices that so late did cheer 
Our tentwith laughter ; from the hills they come 
With friendly sound unto our hstening ear, 
A jocund farewell to oxir glimmering home. 
Loath are our guests, though they have linger'd 

long, 
That our sweet tent at last should leave their 

sight ; 
So with one voice they sing a parting song, 
Ere they descend behind the clouds of night. 
Nor are we mute ; an answering shout we wake, 
At each short pause of the long, lengthening 

sound. 
Till all is silent as the silent Lake, 
And every noise above, below, around, 
Seems in the brooding night-sky's depth of 

slumber drown'd ! 

Soon from that calm our spirits start again 
With bhther vigour ; nought around we see 
Save lively images of mirth and glee, 
And playful fancies hurry through our brain. 
Shine not, sweet Moon ! with such a haughty 

light ; 
Ye stars ! behind your veil of clouds retire ; 
For we shall kindle on the earth, this night 
To drown your feeble rays, a joyous fire. 
Bring the leaves withering in the holly-shade. 
The oaken branches sapless now and hoar. 
The fern no longer green, and whins that fade 
'Mid the thin sand that strews the rocky shore. 
Heap them above that new-awaken'd spark ; 
Soon shall a pyramid of flame arise ; 
Now the first rusthng of the vapour, hark ! 
The kindling spirit from its prison flies. 
And in an instant mounts in glory to the skies ! 

Far gleams the Lake, as in the light of day. 
Or when, from mountain-top, the setting sun, 
Ere yet his earth-delighting course is run, 
Sheds on the slumbering wave a purple ray. 
A bright' ning verdure runs o'er every field, 
As if by potent necromancer shed, 
And a dark wood is suddenly reveal'd, 
A glory resting on its ancient head. 



And oh ! what radiant beauty doth invest 
Our tent, that seems to feel a conscious pride, 
Whiter by far than any cygnet's breast. 
Or cygnet's shadow floating with the tide. 
A warmer flush unto the moonUght cold, 
Winning its lovely way, is softly given, 
A silvery radiance, tinged with vivid gold ; 
While thousand mimic stars are gaily driven 
Through the bright glistening air, scarce known 
from those in Heaven. 

Amid the flame our lurid figures stand, 

Or, through the shrouding vapour dimly view'd, 

To fancy seem, in that strange solitude, 

Like the wild brethren of some lawless band. 

One, snatching from the heap a blazing bough, 

Would, like lone maniac, from the rest retu'e, 

And, as he waved it, mutter deep a vow. 

His head encircled with a wreath of fire. 

Others, with rushing haste, and eager voice, 

Would drag new victims to the insatiate power, 

That hke a savage idol did rejoice 

Whate'er his suppliants offer' d to devour. 

And aye strange murmurs o'er the mountains 

roll'd, 
As if from sprite immured in cavern lone, 
While higher rose pale Luna to behold 
Our mystic orgies, where no light had shone, 
For many and many a year of silence — but her 

own. 

O ! gracious Goddess ! not in vain did shine 
Thy spirit o'er the heavens; with reverent eye 
We hail'd thee floating through the happy sky ; 
No smiles to us are half so dear as thine ! 
Silent we stood beside our dying flame, 
In pensive sadness, born of wild delight, 
And gazing heavenward, many a gentle name 
Bestow' d on her who beautifies the night. 
Then, with one heart, like men who inly 

mourn' d, 
Slowly we paced towards our fairy cell, 
And ere we enter'd, for one moment turn'd, 
And bade the silent majesty farewell ! 
Our rushy beds invite us to repose; 
And while our spirits breathe a grateful prayer. 
In balmy slumbers soon our e3'elids close. 
While, in our dreams, the Moon, serenely fair. 
Still bathes in light divine the visionary air! 

Methinks, next night, I see her mount her throne, 
Intent with loving smile once more to hail 
The deep, deep peace of this her loneliest vale, 
— But where hath now the magic dwelling flown ? 
Oh ! it hath melted like a dream away, 
A dream by far too beautiful for earth ; 
Or like a cloud that hath no certain stay. 
But ever changing, like a diff'erent birth. 
The aged holly trees more silently, 
Now we are gone, stand on the silent ground ; 
I seem to hear the streamlet floating by 
With a complaining, melancholy sound. 
Hush'd are the echoes in each mountain's breast, 
No traces there of former mirth remain ; 
They all in friendly grandeur lie at rest 
And silent, save where Nature's endless strain. 
From cataract and cave, delights her lonely 
reign. 



348 



JOHN WILSON. 



Yet, though the strangers and their Tent have 

past 
Away, like snow that leaves no mark behind, 
Their image lives in many a guiltless mind. 
And long within the shepherd's cot shall last. 
Oft when, on winter night, the crowded seat 
Is closely wheel'd before the blazing fire, 
Then will he love with grave voice to repeat 
(He, the grey-headed venerable sire) 
The conversation he with us did hold 
On moral subjects, he had studied long ; 
And some will gibe the maid who was so bold 
As sing to strangers readily a song. I 

Then they unto each other will recall 
Each little incident of that strange night, 
And give their kind opinion of us all T 
God bless their faces smiling in the light 
Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing 
sight ! 



Nor, may thy quiet spirit read the lay 
With cold regard, thou wife and mother blest ! 
For he was with me on that Sabbath-day, 
Whose heart lies buried in thy inmost breast. 
Then go, my innocent and blameless tale ! 
In gladness go, and free from every fear. 
To yon sweet dwelling above Grassmere vale, 
And be to them I long have held so dear 
One of their fireside songs, still fresh from year 
to year ! 



Friends of my heart ! who shared that purest joy. 

And oft will read these lines with soften'd soul, 

Go where we will, let years of absence roll. 

Nought shall our sacred amity destroy. 

We walk'd together through the mountain-calm. 

In open confidence, and perfect trust ; 

And pleasure, falling through our breasts like 

balm. 
Told that the yearnings that we felt were just. 
No slighting tone, no chilling look e'er marr'd 
The happiness in which our thoughts reposed, 
No words save those of gentleness were heard, 
The eye spoke kindly when the lip was closed. 
But chief, on that blest day that wakes my song. 
Our hearts eternal truth in silence swore ; 
The holy oath is planted deep and strong 
Within our spirits,— in their inmost core,— 
And it shall blossom fair till life shall be no 



Most hallow'd day ! scarce can my heart sustain 
Your tender light by memory made more mild ; 
Tears could I shed even like unto a child. 
And sighs within my spirit hush the strain 
Too many clouds have dimm'd my youthful life, 
These wakeful eyes too many vigils kept ; 
Mine hath it been to toss in mental strife. 
When in the moonlight breathing Nature slept.. 
But iTorget my cares, in bliss forget, 
When, peaceful Valley ! I remember thee ; 
I seem to breathe the air of joy, and yet 
Thy bright'ning hues with moisten'd eyes I see. 
So will it be, till life itself doth close. 
Roam though I may o'er many a distant clime; 
Happy, or pining in unnoticed woes, 
Oft shall my soul recall that blessed time, 
And in her depths adore the beauteous and 
sublime I 

Time that my rural reed at last should cease 
Its willing numbers ; not in vain hath flow'd 
The strain that on my singing heart bestow'd 
The holy boon of undisturbed peace. 
O ! gentlest Lady ! Sister of my friend, 
This simple strain I consecrate to thee ; 
Haply its music with thy soul may blend, 
Albeit well used to loftier minstrelsy. 



THE FAIRIES. 

A DREAM-LIKE REMEMBRANCE OF A DREAM. 



It chanced three merry Fairies met 

On the bridge of a inountain rivulet. 

Whose hanging arch through the misty spray, 

Like a little Lunar Rainbow lay. 

With turf and flowers a pathway meet 

For the twinkling of unearthly feet, 

For bright were the flowers as their golden 

tresses. 
And green the turf as their Elfin-dresses. 
Aye the water o'er the Linn 
Was mocking, with a gleesome din. 
The small shrill laughter, as it broke 
In peals from these night- wandering Folk; 
While the stream danced on with a tinkling tune, 

All happy to meet by a bhnk o' the moon. 

Now laughing louder than before, 

They strove to deaden that ceaseless roar ; 

And, when vanquish'd was the waterfall, 

Loudly they shouted one and all. 

Like the chorus of a Madrigal, 

Till the glen awoke from its midnight trance, 

And o'er the hills in flight-hke dance, 

Was all the troop of echoes driven. 

This moment on earth, and that in heaven. 

From the silent heart of a hollow Yew, 
The Owl sail'd forth with a loud halloo'; 
And his large yellow eyes look'd bright 
With wonder, in the wan moonlight. 
As hovering white, and still as snow. 
He caught a glance of the things below. 
All burning on the bridge hke fire 
In the sea-green glow of their wild attire. 
"Halloo! Halloo! tu-whit! tu-whoo!" 
Cried the gleesome Elves, and away they flew, 
With mimic shriek, sob, cry, and howl, 
In headlong chase of the frighten'd Owl. 
With many a buffet they drove him onward. 

Now hoisted him up, now press'd him down- 
ward ; 

They puU'd at his horns, and with many a tweak, 

Around and around they screw'd his beak ; 

On his back they beat with a birch-spray flail. 

And they tore the long feathers from his tail ; ' 

Then, hke warriors mounted in their pride, 

Behind his wings behold them ride ! 

And shouting, charge unto the war. 

Each waving his soft plume-scymitar ; 

A war of laughter, not of tears. 

The wild-wood's harmless Cuirassiers 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



349 



Through the depth of Ivy on the wall 
(The sole remains of old Greystock Hall) 
The Screamer is driven, half scared to death ; 
And the gamesome Fairies, all out of breath, 
Their tiny robes in the air arranging, 
And lasses in their flight exchanging ; 
Now slowly with the soft wind stealing 
Right onwards, round about now wheehng, 
Like leaves blown off in gusty weather. 
To the rainbow-bridge all flock together ; 
And lo ! on the green moss all alight, 
Like a cluster of Goldfinches mingling bright. 

What feats the Fairy Creatures play'dl 

Now seeming of the height afraid, 

And, folding the moss in fast embraces, 

They peep'd o'er the bridge with their lovely 

faces. 
Now hanging like the fearless flowers 
By their tiny arms in the Cataract-showers, 
Swung back and forward with dehght, 
Like Pearls in the spray-showers burning bright ! 
Then they drop at once into the Pool — 
A moment gone ! then beautiful 
Ascending on slow-hovering wing, 
As if with darkness dallying, 
They rose again, through the smiling air, 
To their couch of moss and flow'rets fair, 
And rooted lay in silence there. 

Down into the gulf profound 

Shd the stream without a sound ! 

A charm had hush'd the thundering shocks, 

And stillness steep'd the blacken'd rocks. 

'Twas fit, where these fair things were lying. 

No sound, save of some Zephyr sighing. 

Should stir the gentle Sohtude ! 

The mountain's night-voice was subdued 

To far-off music faint and dim. 

From Nature's heart a holy hymn ! 

For was that Universal Strain 

Through Fairy-bosoms breathed in vain ; 

Entranced in joy the Creatures lay, 

Listening the music far away, 

Till One the deep'ning silence broke, 

And thus in song-like murmurs spoke. 

MOUNTAIN-FAIRY. 

**' Soon as the lingering Sun was gone, 
I sail'd away from my starry throne, 
Mme own cool, silent, ghmmering dwelling. 
Below the roots of the huge Hylvellyn. 
As onwards like a thought I flew, 
From my wings fast fell the pearly dew, 
Sweet tiny orbs of lucid ray 
Rising and setting on my way, 
Arj if I had been some Planet fair. 
That ruled its own bright hemisphere. 
' O beauteous sight !' the Shepherd cried, 
To the Shepherd slumbering at his side, — 
' Iiook where the Mountain -Fairy flies !' 
But ere he had open'd his heavy eyes, 
I had flown o'er Grassmere's moonlight flood, 
And the rustling swing of old Rydal-Wood, 
And sunk down 'mid the heather-bells 
On the shady side of sweet Furness-Fells. 



'Twas but one soft wave o' my wing '. 
A start, and an end to my journeying. 
One moment's rest in a spot so drear, — 
For the Moonlight was sleeping on Windermere 
And I saw in that long pure streak of hght 
The joy and the sadness of the night, 
And mine eyes, in sooth, began to fill. 
So beautiful that Lake — so still — 
So motionless its gentle breasts- 
Save where just rocking in their rest, 
A crowd of water-hlies lay 
Like stars amid the milky way. 

" But what had I with the lake to do ? 

So off to the misty hills I flew. 

And in dark ravines, and creviced rocks, 

With my finger I counted my thousand flocks. 

And each little Lamb by name I blest, 

As snow-white they lay in their innocent rest. 

When I saw some weak cold tottering Lamb 

Recline 'gainst the side of its pitiful Dara, 

Who seemed to have some wildering fear 

Of Death, as of a Foe that was near, 

I shone like a sunbeam soft and warm 

Till the fleece lay smooth on its strengthened 

form. 
And the happy Creatures lay down together 
Like waves on the sea in gentle weather. 
And in contentment calm and deep 
Sank faintly-bleating into sleep. 

" In the soft moonhght glow I knew 
Where the herbs that hold the poison grew ; 
And at the touch of my feathery foot 
They withered at once both stalk and root. 
But I shook not the gracious tears of night 
From the plants most dear to the Shepherd's 

sight. 
And with mellower lustre bade them spring 
In the yellow round of the Fairy's ring, 
Till, methought, the hillside sm_iled afar 
With the face of many a verdant Star. 
I marked the Fox at the mouth of his den, 
And raised the shadows of Hunter-men, 
And I bade aerial beagles rave. 
And the horn twang through the Felon's cave, 
Then buried him with Famine in his grave. 

" The Raven sat upon Langdale-Peak 

With crusted blood on his ebon-beak, 

And I dash'd him headlong from the steep. 

While the murderer croaked in his sullen sleep. 

Away I sailed by the Eagle's nest 

And the Eaglets couched warm beneath her 

breast. 
But the Shepherd shall miss her cry at morn. 
For her eyes are dim and her plumage torn, 
And I left in their Eyrie the Imps accurst 
To die in their hunger, and cold, and thirst. 
All, all is well with my lovely Flocks ! 
And so I dropt suddenly down the rocks. 
From Loughrig-top, like a faUing Star, 
Seen doubtless through the mists afar 
By a hundred Shepherds on the Hill 
Wandering among the Moonhght still. 
And with folded wings and feet earth-bound 
I felt myself standing o'er the sound 



350 



JOHN WILSON 



Of this Waterfall, and with joy espied 

A Sister-Elf at either side ! 

My Tale is told — nor strange nor new — 

Now, sweet Lady Bright-Eyes ! what say you?" 

As some wild Night-Flower through the dew 
Looks to the Moon with freshened hue, 
When a wandering breath of air 
Hath lifted up its yellow hair, 
And its own little glade grows bright 
At the soft revealment of its hght, 
Upsprung, so sudden and so sweet, 
The Cottage-Fairy to her feet ; 
And, looking round her with a smile, 
Silent the Creature paused awhile. 
Uncertain what glad thoughts should burst 
Li music from her spirit first, 
Till, hke a breath breathed clear from Heaven, 
To her at once a voice was given. 
And through the tune the words arose 
As through the fragrant dew the leaflets of the 
Rose. 

COTTA&E-FAIRY. 

" Sisters ! I have seen this night 

A hundred Cottage-Fires burn bright, 

And a thousand happy faces shining 

In the bursting blaze, and the gleam declining. 

I care not I for the stars above, 

The lights on earth are the lights I love : 

Let Venus bless the Evening-air, 

Uprise at morn Prince Lucifer, 

But those little tiny stars be mine 

That through the softened copse-wood shine, 

With beauty crown the pastoral hill, 

And glimmer o'er the sylvan rill. 

Where stands the Peasant's ivied nest, 

And the huge mill-wheel is at rest, 

From out the honeysuckle's bloom 

I peep'd into that laughing room. 

Then, like a hail-drop on the pane 

Pattering, I still'd the din again, 

While every startled eye looked up ; 

And, half-raised to her lips the cup, 

The rosy Maiden's look met mine ! 

But I veiled mine eyes with the silken twine 

Of the small wild roses clustering thickly; 

Then to her seat returning quickly, 

She 'gan to talk with bashful glee 

Of Fairies 'neath the greenwood Tree 

Dancing by moonlight, and she blest 

Gently our silent Land of rest. 

The Infants playing on the floor, 

At these wild words their sports gave o'er, 

And asked where lived the Cottage-Fairy ; 

The maid replied, ' She loves to tarry 

Ofttimes beside our very hearth. 

And joins in little Children's mirth 

When they are gladly innocent ; 

And sometimes beneath the leafy Tent 

That murmurs round our Cottage-door, 

Our overshadowing Sycamore, 

We see her dancing in a ring, 

And hear the blessed Creature sing — 

A Creature full of gentleness. 

Rejoicing in our happiness.' 

Then pluck' d I a wreath with many a gem 

Burning — a flowery Diadem ; 



And through the wicket with a glide 

I slipped, and sat me down beside 

The youngest of those Infants fair. 

And wreath'd the blossoms round her hair. 

' Who placed these flowers on William's head?' 

His little wondering Sister said, ^ 

' A wreath not half so bright and gay, 

Crown'd me, upon the morn of May, 

Queen of that sunny Holiday.' 

The tiny Monarch laughed aloud 

With pride among the loving crowd, 

And, with my shrillest voice, I lent 

A chorus to their merriment ; 

Then with such murmur as a Bee 

Makes, from a flower-cup suddenly 

Borne off" into the silent sky, 

I skimmed away, and with delight 

Sailed down the calm stream of the night, 

Till gently, as a flake of Snow, 

Once more I dropt on earth below. 

And girdled as with a rainbow zone, 

The Cot beloved I call mine own. 

"Sweet Cot ! that on the mountain-side 

Looks to the stars of Heaven with pride, 

And then flings far its smiling cheer 

O'er the radiant Isles of Windermere,— 

Blest ! ever blest ! thy sheltered roof! 

Pain, grief, and trouble, stand aloof 

From the shadow of thy green Palm-Tree ! 

Let nought from Heaven e'er visit Thee, 

But dews, and rays, and sounds of mirth; 

And ever may this happy Earth 

Look happiest round thy small domain ! 

Thee were I ne'er to see again, 

Methinks that agony and strife 

Would fall even on a Fairy's Hfe, 

And nought should ever bless mine eyes 

Save the dream of that vanished Paradise. 

— The hush'd bee-hives were still as death— 

And the sleeping Doves held fast their breathj 

Nestling together on the thatch ; 

With my wing-tip I raised the latch. 

And there that lovely Lady shone. 

In silence sitting all alone. 

Beside the cradle of her Child ! 

And ever as she gazed, she smiled 

On his calm forehead white as snow ; 

I rock'd the cradle to and fro, 

As on the broom a Linnet's nest 

Swings to the mild wind from the west ; 

And oft his little hands and breast, 

With warm and dewy lips I kist. 

' Sweet Fairy !' the glad Mother said, 

And down she knelt as if she prayed— 

While glad was I to hear our name 

Bestowed on such a beauteous frame, 

And with my wings I hid mine eyes, 

Till I saw the weeping kneeler rise 

From her prayer in holy ecstacies !" 

The Cotta&e-Fairy ceased; and Night 

That seem'd to feel a calm delight 

In the breath of that sweet-warbling tongue. 

Was sad at closing of the song. 

And all her starry eyne look'd dull, 

Of late so brightly beautiful ; 

Till on ihe P' ox-glove's topmost cup 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



351 



The Fairy of the Lake leapt up, 

And with that gorgeous column swinging, 

By fits a low wild prelude singing, 

And gracefully on tip-toe standing, 

With outstretch'd arm, as if commanding, 

The beauty of the Night again 

Revived beneath her heavenly strain. — 

Low, sad, and wild, were the tones I heard, 

Like the opening song of the hidden Bird, 

Ere music sleeps th' Italian vales 

From the heart of a thousand Nightingales; 

But words were none; the balmy air 

Grew vocal round that Elfin fair, 

And, like her fragrant breath, the song 

Dropp'd dewily from that sweet tongue. 

But 'twas a language of her own. 

To grosser human sense unknown ; 

And while in blissful reverie 

My soul lived on that melody, 

In a moment all as death was still : 

Then, like an echo in a Hill 

Far off one melancholy strain ! 

Too heavenly pure to rise again, — 

And all alone the dreamer stood 

Beside the disenchanted flood, 

That rolled the rocky banks along 

With its own dull, slow, mortal song. 

— What wafted off the Fairies ? hush ! 

The storm comes down the glen— crush — crush — 

And as the blackening rain-cloud broke. 

The Pine Tree groans to the groaning Oak! 

Thunder is in the waving wood — 

And from Rydal-mere's white-flashing flood 

There comes through the mist an angry roar, 

Loud as from the great sea-shore. 

Well, I ween, the Fairies knew 

The clouds that the sudden tempest brew, 

And had heard far-off the raging rills. 

As they leapt down from a hundred hills, — 

And the ghostlike moan that wails and raves 

From the toppling crags and the sable caves, — 

Ere the night-storm in his wrath doth come, 

And bids each meaner sound be dumb — 

So they sailed away to the land of rest, 

Each to the spot that it loved the best, 

And left our noisy world ! 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MISS 
ELISABETH SMITH. 

Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries. 
Even o'er the grave where guilt or fraihy lies ; 
Compassion drives each sterner thought away. 
And all seem good when mouldering in the clay. 
For who amid the dim religious gloom. 
The solemn Sabbath brooding o'er the tomb, 
The holy stillness that suspends our breath 
When the soul rests within the shade of death, 
What heart could then withhold the pensive sigh 
Reflection pays to poor mortality, 
Nor sunk in pity near allied to love. 
E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve ! 
The headstrong will with innocence at strife, 
The restless passions that deform'd his life, 



Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak control. 
And dimm'd the native lustre of the soul, 
The look repulsive that like ice repress'd 
The friendly warmth that play' d within the breast, 
The shghting word, through heedlessness severe, 
Wounding the spirit that it ought to cheer, 
Lie buried in the grave ! or if they live, 
Remembrance only wakes them to forgive ; 
While vice and error steal a soft rehef 
From the still twilight of a mellowing grief. 
And oh ! how lovely do the tints return 
Of f'rery virtue sleeping in the urn ! 
Each grace that fleeted unobserved away. 
Starts into life when those it deck'd decay ; 
Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows, 
And self-reproach is mingled with our woes. 

But nobler sorrows hft the musing mind 
When soaring spirits leave their frames behind, 
Who walked the world in Nature's generous 

pride. 
And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died ! 
Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile. 
And Grief's tear-drops 'mid Faith's celestial 

smile : 
Then burns our being with a holy mirth 
That owns no kindred with this mortal earth ; 
For hymning angels in blest vision wave 
Their wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave ! 

Oh thou ! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife. 
Led by the pole star of eternal life, 
Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay, 
No thought that angels might not pleased survey ; 
Thou ! whose calm course through Virtue's fields 

was run 
From youth's fair morning to thy setting sun, 
Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to roll 
O'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul; 
Thou ! who secure in good works strong to save, 
Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave. 
And in the blooming summer of thy years 
Scarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears; 
Oh I from thy throne amid the starry skies, 
List to my words thus interwove with .^ighs. 
And if the high resolves, the cherish'd pain 
That prompt the weak but reverential strain. 
If love of virtue ardent and sincere 
Can win to mortal verse a cherub's ear. 
Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine, 
And make the adoring spirit pure as thine ! 
When my heart muses o'er the long review 
Of all thy, bosom felt, thy reason knew. 
O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride. 
And patience humble though severely tried. 
Judgment unclouded, passions thrice refined, 
A heaven- aspiring loftiness of mind, 
And, rare perfection ! calm and sober sense 
Combined with fancy's wild magnificence ; 
Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan, 
I hail with joy the dignity of man, 
And soaring high above life's roaring sea, 
Spring to the dwelling of my God and Thee. 

Short here thy stay ! for souls of holiest birth 
Dwell but a moment with the sons of earth ; 
To this dim sphere by God's indulgence given. 
Their friends are angels and their home is heaven. 



352 



JOHN WILSON. 



The fairest rose in shortest time decays ; ' 

The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his 

rays ; 
The dew that gleams hke diamonds on the thorn 
Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn ; 
Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shrouds 
The star that smiles amid the evening clouds; 
And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear, 
That the soul wishes every sense could hear. 
Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet, 
As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet. 

Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires 
Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires. 
And mounts to God exulting to be free 
From fleshly chain that binds mortality. 
The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn. 
And glory dwells for ever round her urn ! 
Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air 
That felt her breathings, and that heard her 

prayer ; 
Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod, 
And there e'en Atheists must beheve in God ! 
Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve ! 
Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave ! 
The parted soul in God-given strength sublime, 
Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured 

time ; 
Still on the earth the sainted hues survive , 
Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive. 
In vain the tide of ages strives to roll 
A bar to check the intercourse of soul ; 
The hovering spirits of the good and great 
With fond remembrance own their former state, 
And musing virtue often can behold 
In vision high their plumes of wavy gold. 
And drink with tranced ear the silver sound 
Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round. 
By death untaught, our range of thought is small, 
Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball. 
Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears 
Ignobly pent within a few short years ; 
But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic 

book, 
On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we hft a joyful look, 
Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom, 
And life springs forth exulting from the tomb ! 

O, blest Eliza ! though to me unknown, 
Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone ; 
Though on this earth apart our lives were led, 
Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled ; 
Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay, 
And rend the glimmering veil of death away : 
Fancy beholds with fix'd, dehghted eye. 
Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by ; 
Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast, 
As moonlight steeps the ocean wave in rest f 
While thus, bright shade ! thine eyes of mercy 

dwell 
On that fair land thou loved' st of old so well, 
What holy raptures through thy being flow, 
To see thy memory blessing all below, 
Virtue rekindle at thy grave her fires. 
And vice repentant shun his low desires ! 
This the true Christian's heaven ! on earth to 

see 
The sovereign power of immortaUty 



At war v.'ith sin, and in triumphaiit pride 
Spreading the empire of the crucified. 

Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude, 
Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit wooed: 
Where lonely cataracts with sullen roar 
To thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore, 
And caverns moaning with the voice of night, 
Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange 

delight ; 
I feel thy influence on my heart descend. 
Like words of comfort whisper'd by a friend, 
And every cloud in lovelier figures roll, 
Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul ! 
And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of Jight, 
The sun in glory bathes each radiant height, 
Amid the glow thy form seraphic seems 
To float refulgent with unborrow'd beams ; 
For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued) 
From tliy own blessedness dispensing good ; 
Brightly that soul in life's fair morn arose, 
And burn'd hke him, more glorious at its close. 

But now I feel my pensive spirit turn, 
Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee 

mourn. 
For though to all unconscious time supplies 
A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs ; 
And in our lonehest hours of grief is given 
To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven, 
Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress, 
Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness, 
And sorrow, selfish from excess of love, 
Would glad recal the seraph from above I 
And, chief, to thee ! on whose delighted breastj 
While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest, 
Who rock'd her cradle with requited care. 
And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer ; 
To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye. 
From herflush'd cheek health's natural radiance 

fly, 

And, though by fate denied the power to save. 
Smoothed with kind care her passage to the 

grave. 
When slow consumption led with fatal bloom 
A rosy spectre smiling to the tomb ; 
The strain of comfort first to thee would flow. 
But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow; 
And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll 
Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul, 
For reason whispers, and religion proves, 
That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves ; 
And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom, 
Cheer'd by the light that burns beyond the 

tomb. 

Ail Nature speaks of thy departed child, 
The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild ; 
Of her the lark 'mid sunshine oft will sing, 
And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring ! 
The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam. 
Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream 
Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd 
The misty summit and the woodland glade, 
The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest, 
And verdant isles reflected on its breast. 
As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray 
While eve steals dimly on retiring day, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



353 



And the pale light that nameless calm supplies 
That holds communion with the promised skies, 
When Nature's beauty overpowers distress, 
And stars soft-burning kindle holiness, 
Thy lips in passive resignation move, 
And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love. 
The languid mien, the cheek of hectic dye, 
The mournful beauty of the radiant eye. 
The placid smile, the light and easy breath 
Of nature blooming on the brink of death. 
When the fair phantom breathed in twilight 

balm 
A dying vigour and deceitful calm. 
The tremulous voice that ever loved to tell 
Thy fearful heart that all would soon be well, 
Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall 
O'er scenes gone by that thou wouldst fain recal. 
Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled 
A parent weeping her departed child. 
Than love maternal, when her baby lay 
Hush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play. 
And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came, 
Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken 

name. 
Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start, 
Nor thejirear night hangs heavy on thy heart. 
Though sky and star may yet a while divide 
Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride. 
Your spirits mingle — while to thine is given 
A loftier nature from the touch of heaven. 



EDITH AND NORA. 

A PASTORAL POEt's DREAM. 

She hath risen up from her morning prayer. 
And chained the waves of her golden hair. 
Hath kiss'd her sleeping sister's cheek, 
And breathed the blessing she might not speak, 
Lest the whisper should break the dream that 

smiled 
Round the snow-white brow of the sinless child. 
Her radiant Lamb and her purpling Dove 
Have ta'en their food from the hand they love ; 
The low deep coo and the plaintive bleat 
In the morning calm, how clear and sweet ! 
Ere the Sun has warmed the dawning hours, 
She hath water'd the glow of her garden flowers, 
And welcomed the hum of the earliest Bee 
In the moist bloom working drowsily; 
Then up the flow of the rocky rill 
She trips away to the pastoral Hill ; 
And, as she lifts her ghstening eyes 
In the joy of her heart to the dewy skies. 
She feels that her sainted Parents bless 
Thf life of their Orphan Shepherdess. 

'Tis a lonely Glen! but the happy Child 

Haih friends whom she meets in the morning 

wild ! 
.As on she trips, her native stream, 
Like her hath awoke from a joyfiil dream. 
And gUdes away by her twinkling feet, 
Wiih a face as bright and a voice as sweet. 
45 



In the osier bank the Ouzel sitting, 
Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting 
From stone to stone, as she glides along. 
Then sinks in the stream with a broken song. 
The Lapwing, fearless of his nest, 
Stands looking round with his delicate crest, 
Or a love-hke joy is in his cry, 
As he wheels and darts and glances by. 
Is the Heron asleep on the silvery sand 
Of his little Lake ? Lo ! his wings expand 
As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread, 
Cloud-hke he floats o'er the Maiden's head. 
She looks to the birch-wood glade, and lo ! 
There is browzing there the mountain-roe. 
Who hfts up her gentle eyes, nor moves 
As on glides the form whom all nature loves. 
Having spent in Heaven an hour of mirth. 
The Lark drops down to the dewy earth. 
And as silence smooths his yearning breast 
In the gentle fold of his lowly nest. 
The Linnet takes up the hymn, unseen 
In the yellow broom or the bracken green. 
And now, as the morning-hours are glowing. 
From the hill-side cots the cocks are crowing. 
And the Shepherd's Dog is barking shrill 
From the mist fast rising from the hill, 
And the Shepherd's self, with locks of grey. 
Hath blessed the Maiden on her way ! 
And now she sees her own dear flock 
On a verdant mound beneath the rock. 
All close together in beauty and love. 
Like the small fair clouds in heaven above. 
And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight 
Is swimming o'er with a still delight. 

And how shall sweet Edith pass the day, 
From her home and her sister so far away, 
With none to whom she may speak the while. 
Or share the silence and the smile. 
When the stream of thought flows calm and 

deep. 
And the face of .Toy is like that of sleep ' 
Fear not — the long, still Summer-day 
On downy wings hath sail'd away, 
And is melting unawares in Even, 
Like a pure cloud in the heart of Heaven, 
Nor Weariness nor Woe hath paid 
One visit to the happy Maid, 
Sitting in sunshine or in shade. 
For many a wild Tale doth she know. 
Framed in these valleys long ago 
By pensive Shepherds, unto whom 
The sweet breath of the heather-bloom 
Brought inspiration, and the Sky 
Folding the hill-tops silently. 
And airs so spirit-like, and streams 
Aye murmuring through a world of dreams. 
A hundred plaintive tunes hath she — 
A hundred chaunts of sober glee — 
And she hath sung them o'er and o'er, — 
As on some solitary shore ■ 

'Tis said the Mermaid oft doth sing 
Beneath some cliflfs o'ershadowing. 
While melteth o'er the waters clear 
A song which there is none to hear ! 
Still at the close of each wild strain 
Hath gentle Edith lived again 



354 



JOHN WILSON. 



O'er long-past hours — while smiles and sighs 

Obey'd their own loved Melodies. 

Now rose to sight the hawthorn-glade, 

Where that old blind Musician played 

So blithely to the dancing ring — 

Or, in a fit of sorrowing. 

Sung mournful Songs of other years 

That fiU'd his own dim eyes with tears. 

And then the Sabbath seemed to rise 

In stillgess o'er the placid skies, 

And from the small Kirk in the Dell 

Came the clear chime of holy Bell, 

Solemnly ceasing, when appear'd 

The grey-hair'd Man beloved and fear'd — 

The Man of God — whose eyes were fiU'd 

With visions in the heavens beheld. 

And rightfully inspired fear, 

Whose yoke, like Love's, is light to bear. 

— And thus sole sitting on the Brae, 

From human voices far away. 

Even like the flowers round Edith's feet, 

Shone forth her fancies wild or sweet ; 

Some in the shades of memory 

Unfolding out reluctantly. 

But breathing from that tender gloom 

A faint — etherial — pure perfume ; 

Some burning in their full-blown pride, 

And by the Sun's love beautified ; 

None wither' d — for the air is holy, 

Of a pure spirit's melancholy ; 

And God' s own gracious eye hath smiled 

On the sorrows of this Orphan Child; 

Therefore, her Parents' Grave appears 

Green, calm, and sunbright through her tears, 

Beneath the deep'ning hush of years. 

An Image of young Edith's Life, 
This one still day — no noise — no strife — 
Alike calm — morning — noon — and even— 
And Earth to her as pure as Heaven. 

Now night comes wavering down the sky : 

The clouds like ships at anchor lie. 

All gather'd in the ghmmering air, 

After their pleasant voyage : there 

One solitary bark glides on 

So slow, that its haven will ne'er be won. 

But a wandering wind hath lent it motion, 

And the last Sail hath passed o'er the heavenly 

ocean. 
Are these the Hills so steep'd by day, 
In a greenness that seem'd to mock decay, 
And that stole from the Sun so strong a light, 
That it well might dare th' eclipse of night ? 
Where is the sound that filled the air 
Around— and above — and every where ? 
Soft wild pipes hushed ! and a world of wings 
All shut with their radiant shiverings ! 
The wild bees now are all at rest 
In their earthen cell — or their mossy nest — 
Save when some lated labourers come 
From the far-off hills with a weary hum. 
And drop down 'raid the flowers, till morn 
Shall awaken to life each tiny horn. 
Dew sprinkles sleep on every flower. 
And each bending stalk has lost its power — 
No toils have they, but in beauty blest. 
They seem to partake in Nature's rest. 



Sleep calms the bosom of the Earth, 

And a dream just moves it in faintest mirth. 

The slumber of the Hills and Sky 

Hath hushed into a reverie 

The soul of Edith — by degrees. 

With half-closed eyes she nothing sees 

But the glimmer of twilight stretched afar, 

And one bright soMtary star. 

That comes like an angel with his beams, 

To lead her on through the world of dreams. 

She feels the soft grass beneath her head, 

And the smell of flowers around her shed. 

Breathing of Earth, — as yet, she knows 

Whence is the sound that past her flows, 

(The flowery fount in its hillside cell) 

But a beauty there is which she cannot tell 

To her soul that beholds it, spread all around ; 

And she feels a rapture, oh ! more profound 

Than e'er by a dream was breathed, or driven 

Through a bosom, all suddenly filled with heaven. 

Oh ! come ye from heaven, ye blessed Things, 

So silent with your silvery wings 

Folded in moonlight glimmerings ? 

— They have dropt like two soft gleams of light, 

Those gracious Forms, on the verdant height 

Where Edith in her slumber lies. 

With calm face meeting the calm skies, 

Like one whose earthly course is o'er, 

And sleepeth to awake no more ! 

Gazing upon the Child they stand, 

Till one with small soft silent hand 

Lifts from that brow the golden hair — 

' ' Was ever mortal face so fair ? 

God gives to us the sleeping maid !" 

And scarcely are the kind words said. 

Than Edith's lovely neck is wreathed 

With arms as soft as zephyrs breathed 

O'er sleeping Hiies, — and slowly raised 

The still form of the child, amazed 

To see those visages divine, 

And eyes so filled with pity, shine 

On her, a simple Shepherdess, 

An orphan in the wilderness ! 

" O, happy child i who livest in mirth 

And joy of thine own on this sinful Earth, 

Whose heart, hke a lonely stream, keeps singi-ig, 

Or, like a holy bell, is ringing 

So sweetly in the silent wild — 

Wilt thou come with us, thou happy child, 

And live in a land where woe and pain 

Are heard but as a far-ofi' strain 

Of mournful music, — where the breath 

Of Life is murmuring not of Death ; 

And Happiness alone doth weep. 

And nought but Bliss doth break our sleep. 

Wilt thou come with us to the Land of Dreams ?"' 

— A kiss as soft as moonlight seems 

To fall on Edith's brow and cheek — 

As that voice no more is heard to speak ; 

And bright before her half-closed eyes 

Stand up these Shapes from Paradise, 

Breathing sweet fear into her heart ! 

— She Irembleth lest their beauty part. 

Cloudlike, ere she be full awake. 

And leave her weeping for their sake. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



355 



An orphan Shepherdess again, 

Left all by herself in that lonely glen ! 

" Fear not, sweet Edith ! to come along 
With us, though the voice of the Fairy's Song 
Sounds strange to thy soul thus murmuring 

near — 
Fear not, for thou hast nought to fear ! 
Oft hast thou heard our voice before, 
Hymn-like pass by thy cottage door 
When thou and thy sister were at prayers,— 
Oft hast thou heard it in wild low airs, 
Circling thy couch on the heathery hill, — 
And when all the stars in heaven were still, 
As their images in the lake below. 
That was our voice that seem'd to flow, 
Like softest waters through the night, 
The music breathed from our delight. 
Then, come with us, sweet Edith ! come 
And dwell in the Lake-Fairy's home ; 
And happier none can be in heaven, 
Then we in those green valleys, given 
By Nature's kind benificence 
To us, who live in innocence ; 
And on our gentle missions go. 
Up to the human world of woe, 
To make by our music mortal Elves 
For a dream as happy as ourselves ; 
All flitting back e'er the morn arise, 
To our own untroubled Paradise." 

" waft me there, ere my dream is gone. 

For dreams have a wild world all their own ! 

And never was vision hke to this — 

waft me away ere I wake from bhss ! 

But where is my little sister? Where 

The child whom her mother with dying prayer 

Put into my bosom, and bade us be 

True to each other, as on the sea 

Two loving birds, whom a wave may divide. 

But who float back soon to each other's side ! 

Bring Nora here, and we two will take 

Our journey with you deep down the Lake, 

And let its waters for ever close 

O'er the upper world of human woes, 

For young though we be, and have known no 

strife. 
Yet we start at the shadows of mortal life ; 
And many a tear have we two shed 
In each other's arms, on an orphan bed, — 
So let Nora to my heart be given, 
And with you will we fly, and trust in Heaven." 

A sound of parting wings is heard. 

As when at night some wandering bird 

FUts by us, absent from its nest 

Beyond the hour of the Songster's rest. 

For, the younger Fairy away hath flown, 

And hath Nora found in her sleep alone, 

Hath raised her up between her wings, 

And lulled her with gentlest murmurings. 

And borne her over plain and steep 

With soft smooth glide that breaks not sleep, 

And laid her down as still as death 

By Edith's side on the balmy heath. 

And all ere twice ten waves have broke 

On the Lake's smooth sand, or the aged oak 



Hath ceased to shiver its leaves so red 
Beneath the breeze that just touched its head. 

The heath-flowers all are shining bright. 
And every star has its own soft light, 
And all the quiet clouds are there. 
And the same sweet sound is in the air. 
From stream and echo mingling well 
In the silence of the ghmmering dell, — 
But no more is seen the radiant fold 
Of Fairy-wings bedropt with gold, 
Nor those sweet human faces ! 'They 
Have melted like the dew away, 
And Edith and Nora never more 
Shall be sitting seen on the earthly shore ! 
For they drift away with peaceful motion, 
Like birds into the heart of ocean. 
Some silent spot secure from storms— 
Who float on with their soft-plumed forms 
Whiter than the white sea-foam, 
Still dancing on from home to home ; 
Fair Creatures ! in their lonely glee 
Happier than Stars in Heaven or Sea. 

Long years are past — and every stone 

Of the Orphans' cot is with moss o'ergrown, 

And wild stalks beautiful and tall 

Hang o'er the little garden-wall. 

And the clear well within the rock 

Lies with its smiling calm unbroke 

By dipping pitcher ! There the Hives ! 

But no faint feeble hum survives — 

Dead is that cottage once so sweet. 

Shrouded as in a winding-sheet — 

Nor even the sobbing of the air 

Mourns o'er the hfe that once was there ! 

happy ye ! who have flown afar 

From the sword of those ruthless men of war, 

That, for many a year, have bathed in blood 

Scotland's green glens of solitude! 

Orphans were ye — 'but your lips were calm 

When together ye sang the evening psalm; 

Nor sound of terror on the breeze, 

E'er startled you up from your humble knees, 

When on the dewy daisied sod. 

In heaven ye worsbipp'd your Father's God, 

After the simple way approved 

By men whom God and Angels loved. 

Dark — dark days come — when holy prayers 

Are sinful held, and snow-white hairs 

By ruffian hands are torn and strew'd, 

Even where the Old Man bows to God ! 

Sabbath is heavy to the soul, 

When no kirk-bell is heard to toll. 

Struck dumb as ice — no bridal show 

Shines cheerful through these days of woe ; 

Now are the blest baptismal rites 

Done by lone streams, in moonless nights ; 

Now every lover loves in dread ; 

Sleep flies from cradle and from bed ; 

The silent meal in fear is blest ; 

In fear the mother gives her breast 

To the infant, whose dim eyes can trace 

A trouble in her smihng face. 

The little girl her hair has braided 

Over a brow by terror shaded ; 



356 



JOHN WILSON. 



And virgins, in youth's lovely years, 
Who fear not death, have far worse fears. 
Wailing is heard o'er all the land, 
For, by day and night, a bloody hand 
A bloody sword doth widely wave. 
And peace is none, but in the grave. 

But Edirh and Nora lead happy hours 

In the Queen Lake-Fairy's palace-bowers, 

Nor troubles from the world of ill 

E'er reach that kingdom calm and still. 

A dream-like kingdom sunk below 

The fatal reach of waking woe ! 

There, radiant water-drops are shed, 

Like strings of pearl round each Orphan's head, 

Glistening with many a lovely ray. 

Yet, all so hght, that they melt away, 

Unfelt by the locks they beautify — 

The flowers that bloom there never die, 

Breathing for ever through the calm 

A gentle breath of honey'd balm ; 

Nor ever happy Fairy grieves 

O'er the yellow fall of the Forest leaves; 

Nor mourns to hear the rustling dry 

Of their faded pride in the frosty sky ; 

For all is young and deathless there, 

All things unUke — but all things fair. 

Nor is that saddest beauty known 

That lies in the thoughts of pleasure flown; 

Nor doth joy ever need to borrow 

A charm to its soul from the smiles of sorrow. 

Nor are the upper world and skies 

Withheld, when they list, from these Orphans' 

eyes — 
The shadow of green trees on earth 
Falls on the Lake — and the small bird's mirth 
Doth often through the silence ring 
In sweet, shrill, merry jargoning — 
So that the Orphans almost think 
They are lying again on the broomy brink 
Of their native Dee — and scarcely know 
If the change hath been to bliss or woe. 
As, 'mid that music wild, they seem 
To start back to Hfe from a fairy dream. 
So all that most beautiful is above 
Sends down to their rest its soul of love ; 
Nor have they in their bhss forgot 
The walls, roof, and door, of their native cot; 
Nor the bed in which their Parents died, 
And they themselves slept side by side ! 
They know that Heaven hath brought them here, 
To shield them from the clouds of fear; 
And therefore on their sinless breasts 
When they go to sleep the Bible rests, 
The Bible that they read of old, 
Beside their lambs in the mountain-fold, 
Unseen but by one gracious eye, 
That blest their infant piety ! 

On what doth the wondering shepherd gaze, 
As o'er Loch-Ken the moonlight plays. 
And in the Planet's silvery glow. 
Far shines the smooth sand, white as snow? 
In Heaven or Lake there is no breeze, 
Yet a ghmmering Sail that Shepherd sees, 
Swan-like steer on its stately way 
Into the little Crescent bay ; 



Now jocundly its fair gleam rearing, 

And now in darkness disappearing. 

Till 'mid the water-hlies riding 

It hangs, and to the green shore gliding 

Two lovely Creatures silently 

Sit down beneath the star-light sky, 

And look around, in deep delight, 

On all the pure still smiles of night. 

As they sit in beauty on the shore. 

The Shepherd feels he has seen before 

The quiet of their heavenly eyes : 

" 'Tis the Orphans come back from Paradise, 

Edith and Nora ! They now return, 

When this woe-worn Land hath ceased to 
mourn. 

We thought them dead, but at Heaven's com- 
mand, 

For years they have lived in Fairy Land, 

And they glide back by night to their little cot. 

O absent long, but by none forgot !" 

The boat with its snow-white sail is gone. 

And the Creatures it brought to shore are 

flown; 
Still the crowd of water-lilies shake, 
And a long bright line shines o'er the Lake, 
But nought else tells that a bark was near ; 
While the wilder' d Shepherd seems to hear 
A wild hymn wandering through the wood, 
Till it dies up the mountain sohtude ; 
And a dreamy thought, as the sounds depart, 
Of Edith and Nora comes o'er his heart. 

At morning's first pure silent glow, 

A band of simple Shepherds go 

To the Orphans' Cot, and there they behold 

The Dove so bright, with its plumes of gold, 

And the radiant Lamb, that used to glide 

So spirit-like by fair Edith's side. 

Fair Creatures ! that no more were seen 

On the sunny thatch or the flowery green, 

Since the lovely Sisters had flown away, 

And left their Cottage to decay '. 

Back to this world returned again. 

They seem in sadness and in pain, 

And coo and bleat is like the breath 

Of sorrow mourning over death. 

Lo ! smihng on their rushy bed, 

Lie Edith and Nora — embraced — and dead ! 

A gentle frost has closed their eyes, 

And hushed — just hushed — their balmy sighs. 

Over their hps, yet rosy red, 

A faint, pale, cold decay is shed ; 

A dimness hangs o'er their golden hair, 

That sadly tells no life is there ; 

There beats no heart, no current flows 

In bosoms sunk in such repose ; 

Limbs may not that chill quiet have, 

Unless laid ready for the grave. 

Silence lies there from face to feet. 

And the bed she loves best is a winding-sheet. 

Let the CofRn sink down soft and slowly, 

And calm be the burial of the holy ! 

One long look in that mournful cell — 

Let the green turf heave — and then, farewell ! 

No need of tears ! in this church-yard shade 

Oft had the happy Orphans played 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



357 



Above these quiet graves I and well they lie 
After a calm bright life of purity, 
Beneath the flowers that once sprung to meet 
The motion of their now still feet ! 
The mourners are leaving the buried clay 
To the holy hush of the Sabbath-day, 
When a Lamb comes sadly bleating by, 
And a Dove soft wavering through the sky, 
And both lie down without a sound, 
In beauty on the funeral mound ! 
What may these lovely creatures be ! 
— Two sisters who died in infancy, 
And thus had those they loved attended, 
'And been by those they loved befriended ! 
Whate'er — ^fair Creatures ! might be their birth, 
Never more were they seen on earth ; 
But to young and old behef was given 
That with Edith and Nora they went to Heaven. 



THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE. 

With laughter sv/imming in thine eye, 
That told youth's heartfelt revelry ; 
And motion changeful as the wing 
Of swallow waken'd by the spring; 
With accents blithe as voice of May 
Chaanting glad Nature's roundelay ; 
Circled by joy like planet bright 
That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,— 
Thy image such, in former time. 
When thou, just entering on thy prime. 
And woman's sense in thee combined 
Gently with childhood's simplest mind. 
First taught' St my sighing soul to move 
With hope towards the heaven of love ! 

Now years have given my Mary's face 

A thoughtful and a quiet grace : — 

Though happy still, — yet chance distress 

Hath left a pensive loveliness ; 

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, 

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams ! 

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, 

Shower blessings on a darling child ; 

Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread, 

As if round thy hush'd infant's bed ! 

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, 

That tells thy heart is all my own. 

Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years. 

With the wife's love, the mother's fears ! 

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime 
Assured, I smile at hoary time ! 
For thou art doom'd in age to know 
The calm that wisdom steals from woe ; 
The holy pride of high intent. 
The glory of a life well spent. 
When, earth's affections nearly o'er, 
With Peace behind, and Faith before, 
Thou render' st up again to God, 
Untarnish'd by its frail abode. 
Thy lustrous soul, — then harp and hymn, 
From bands of eister seraphim. 
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye 
Open in Immortality. 



MY COTTAGE. 



One small spot 
Where my tired mind may rest and call it home. 
There is a magic in that little word; 
It is a mystic circle that surrounds 
Comforts and virtues never known beyond 
The hallowed limit. 

Sobthey's Hymn to the Penatse. 



Here have I found at last a home of peace 
To hide me from the world ; far from its noise. 
To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from 

earth. 
And hnk'd to human beings by the bond 
Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim 
Than perishable joy, and through the calm 
That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude. 
Can hear the billows of eternity, 
And hear delighted. 

Many a mystic gleam. 
Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness 
Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her hght 
Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair Moon 
Hath risen in the sky. And oh ! ye dreams 
That to such spiritual happiness could shape 
The lonely reveries of my boyish days, 
Are ye at last fulfill' d ? Ye fairy scenes. 
That to the doubting gaze of prophecy 
Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green, 
Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves 
Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing 
Of woods primeval darken'd the still depth 
Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hil'te 
Even hke the arms of Ocean, where the roar 
Sullen and far from mountain cataract 
Was heard amid the silence, like a thought 
Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul 
When swarming with delights ; — Ye fairy scenes! 
Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart 
In living beauty, with adoring song 
I bid you hail ! and with as holy love 
As ever beautified the eye of saint 
Hymning his midnight orisons, to you 
I consecrate my life, — till the dim stain 
Left by those worldly and unhallow'd thoughts 
That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed, 
My spirit travel like a summer sun 
Itself all glory, and its path all joy. 

Nor will the musing penance of the soul, 
Perform'd by moonlight, or the setting sun. 
To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow 
Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on 
To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks 
A parent's language, and, in tones as mild 
As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast. 
Wins us to learn her lore. Yea ! even to guilt, 
Though in her image something terrible 
Weigh down his being with a load of awe, 
Love mmgles with her wrath, like tender light 
Stream'd o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er 
Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful. 
His blessings sanctify even senseless things, 
And the wide world in cheerful loveUness 



358 



JOHN WILSON. 



Returns to him its joy. The summer air, 
Whose ghttering stillness sleeps within his soul, 
Stirs with its own delight : The verdant earth. 
Like beauty waking from a happy dream, 
Lie smiHng : Each fair cloud to him appears 
A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace ; 
And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea, 
A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest 
The man who thus beholds the golden chain 
Linking his soul to outward Nature fair. 
Full of the living God ! 

And where, ye haunts 
Of grandeur and of beauty ! shall the heart, 
That yearns for high communion with its God, 
Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you? 
The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth 
Luiger delighted here : Here guilt might come, 
With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy. 
And in a moment be restored to Heaven. 
Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face, 
Might be beguiled to smiles, — al.aiost forget 
His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book 
Read characters so lovely, that his heart 
Would, as it bless'd them, feel a rising swell 
Almost like joy ! — earthly paradise ! 
Of many a secret anguish hast thou heal'd 
Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain. 

And oh I if in those elevated hopes 
That lean on virtue, — in those high resolves 
That bring the future close upon the soul, 
And nobly dare its dangers ; — if in joy 
Whose vital spring is more than innocence, 
Yea ! Faith and Adoration ! — if the soul 
Of man may trust to these, — and they are strong, 
Strong as the prayer of dying penitent, — 
My being shall be bhss. For witness. Thou ! 
O Mighty One ! whose saving love has stolen 
On the deep peace of moon-beams to my heart, — 
Thou ! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheer'd 
The starry silence, when, at noon of night. 
On some wild mountain thou hast not dechned 
The homage of thy lonely worshipper, — 
Bear witness, Thou ! that both in joy and grief, 
The love of nature long hath been with me 
The love of virtue : — that the sohtude 
Of the remotest hills to me hath been 
Thy temple : — that the fountain's happy voice 
Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has 

stunn'd 
My spirit in the roaring cataract ! 

Such sohtude to me ! Yet are there hearts, — 
Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorn'd 
With sense of moral beauty, — to the joy 
That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine, 
Senseless and cold. Aye, there are men who see 
The broad sun sinking in a blaze of hght. 
Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail 
With adoration the departing God ; 
Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon 
Glides in still beauty through unnumber'd stars, 
Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall 
Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls. 
With humble pride I bless the Holy One 
For sights to these denied. And oh ! how oft 
In seasons of depression, — when the lamp 



Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts 

Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul, — 

When doubts and fears withheld the timid eye 

From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense 

Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain. 

How oft have I remember'd that a world 

Of glory lay around me, that a source 

Of lofty solace lay in every star, 

And that no being need behold the sun. 

And grieve, that knew Who hung him in the sky. 

Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief 

To airy joy : and seeing that the mind 

Of man though still the image of his God, 

Lean'd by his will on various happiness, 

I felt that all was good ; that faculties, 

Though low, might constitute, if rightly used, 

True wisdom ; and when man hath here attain'd 

The purpose of his being, he will sit 

Near Mercy's throne, whether his course hath 

been 
Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing 
Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze. 

Then ever shall the day that led me here 
Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see, 
Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun 
That made Winander one wide wave of gold, 
When first in transport from the mountain-top 
I hail'd the heavenly vision ! Not a cloud 
Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light, 
Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep 
Together, like a happy family 
Of beauty and of love, but will arise 
To cheer my parting spirit, and to tell 
That Nature gently leads unto the grave 
All who have read her heart, and kept their own 
In kindred holiness. 

But ere that hour 
Of awful triumph, I do hope that years 
Await me, when the unconscious power of joy 
Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul 
Will humanize the heart, and I shall be 
More worthy to be loved by those whose love 
Is, highest praise : — that by the living light 
That burns forever in affection's breast, 
I shall behold how fair and beautiful 
A human form may be. — Oh, there are thoughts 
That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds 
Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven 
On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant. 
Awake the sleeping melody I Such thoughts 
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee. 
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul 
With a dear home-toned whisper, — if thy face 
E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light 
From our own cottage-hearth ; — Mary ! then 
My overpower'd spirit will recline 
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become, 
O sinless seraph ! almost worthy thee. 

Then will the earth, — that oft times to the eye 
Of solitary lover seems o'erhung 
With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles 
With ineffectual beauty on his heart,— 
Be clothed with everlasting jc^ ; like land 
Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams 
Ere Ufe's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn 



:'>I I S C E L L A N E U S POEMS. 



35. 



My vision from the glories of ihe scene 
To read them in thine eyes ; and hidden grace, 
That slumbers in the crimson clouds of Even, 
Will reach my spirit through their varying light, 
Though view^less in the sky. Wandering with 

thee, 
A thousand beauties never seen before 
Will ghde with sweet surprise into my soul, 
Even in those fields where each particular tree 
Was look'd on as a friend, — where I had been 
Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens. 

Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss, 
Will the faint image of the distant world 
Ne'er float before us : — Cities will arise 
Among the clouds that circle round the sun, 
Georgeous with tower and temple. The night- 
voice 
Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem 
Likehfe's loud stir : — And, as the dream dissolves, 
With burning spirit we will smile to see 
Only the Moon rejoicing in the sky, 
And the still grandeur of the eternal hills. 

Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy 
Bless our united beings, and the home 
Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen, 
Though human voice might never touch our ear 
From lip of friend or brother ; — yet, oh ! think 
What pure benevolence will warm our hearts, 
When with the undelaying steps of love 
Through yon o'ershadowing wood we dimly see 
A coming friend, far distant then believed. 
And all unlook'd-for. When the short distrust 
Of unexpected joy no more constrains. 
And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms, 
With gladden'd spirit he will quickly own 
That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man 
Ne'er knew the whole aflfection of his heart 
Till resting on another's. If from scenes 
Of noisy life he come, and in his soul 
The love of Nature, Hke a long-past dream, 
If e'er it stir, yield but a dim delight, 
Oh ! we shall lead him where the genial power 
Of beauty, working by the wavy green 
Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam 
Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales. 
And, lovelier than the loveliness below. 
The moonlight Heaven, shall to his blood restore 
An undisturb'd flow, such as he felt 
Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night, 
When youth's bright years pass'd happily away, 
Among his native hills, and all he knew 
Of crowded cities was from passing tale 
Of traveller, half-believed , and soon forgotten. 

And fear not, Mary ! that, when winter comes, 
These solitary mountains will resign 
The beauty that pervades their mighty frames, 
Even hke a living soul. The gleams of light 
Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs. 
And giving to our musings many a burst 
Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye 
Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild, 
Pleased with its own creation ; — the still joy 
Of cloudless skies ; and the delighted voice 
Of hymning fountains, — these will leave awhile 
The altered earth : — But other attributes 



Of nature's heart will rule, and in the storm 
We shall behold the same prevailing Power 
That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify, 
With adoration, the delight of love. 

I Hft my eyes upon the radiant Moon, 
That long unnoticed o'er my head has held 
Her soUtary walk, and as her light 
Recals my wandering soul, I start to feel 
That all has been a dream. Alone I stand 
Amid the silence, onward rolls the stream 
Of time, while to my ear its waters sound 
With a strange rushing music. O my soul ! 
Whate'er betide, for aye remember thou 
These mystic warnings, for they are of Heaven. 



LOUGHRIG TARN. 

Thou guardian Naiad of this httle Lake ! 
Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep 
(And that in waters lone and beautiful 
Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love, 
Have poets still beUeved,) surely blest 
Beyond all genii or of wood or wave. 
Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell, 
Art thou ! yea, happier even than summer-cloud 
Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow, 
O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven. 

Beauteous as blest, Naiad, thou must be ! 
For, since thy birth, have all delightful things, 
Of form and hue, of silence and of sound, 
Circled thy spirit, as the crowding stars 
Shine round the placid Moon. Lovest thou to 

sink 
Into thy cell of sleep ? The water parts 
With dimpUng smiles around thee, and below, 
The unsunn'd verdure, soft as cygnet's down, 
Meets thy descending feet without a sound. 
Lovest thou to sport upon the watery gleam ? 
Lucid as air around thy head it lies 
Bathing thy sable locks in pearly light. 
While, all around, the water-lilies strive 
To shower their blossoms o'er the virgin queen. 
Or doth the shore allure thee ? — well it may : 
How soft these fields of pastoral beauty melt 
In the clear water ! neither sand nor stone 
Bars herb or wild-flower from the dewy sound. 
Like Spring's own voice now rippling round the 

Tarn. 
There oft thou liest 'mid the echoing bleat 
Of lambs, that race amid the sunny gleams ; 
Or bee's wide murmur as it fills the broom 
That yellows round thy bed. O gentle glades, 
Amid the tremulous verdure of the woods, 
In steadfast smiles of more essential light, 
Lying like azure streaks of placid sky 
Amid the moving clouds, the Naiad loves 
Your ghmmering alleys, and your rustling 

bowers ; 
For there, in peace rechned, her half-closed eye 
Through the long vista sees her darhng Lake, 
Even like herself, diffused in fair repose. 

Not undelightful to the quiet breast 
Such solitary dreams as now have fill'd 



360 



JOHN WILSON, 



My busy fancy ; dreams that rise in peace, 
And thither lead, parlalung in their flight 
Of human interests and earthly joys. 
Imagination fondly leans on tnith, 
And sober scenes of dim reality 
To her seem lovely as the western sky 
To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun. 
Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart 
Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back 
To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude 
Profounder beauty to reward my hymn. 

Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, 
And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart, 
Meeting and parting with thy smiles of peace. 
But now, thy mild and gentle character, 
More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend 
Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune 
Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last 
In one high moment of inspired bliss. 
Borne through the spirit like an angel's song. 

This is the solitude that reason loves ! 
Even he who yearns for human sympathies, 
And hears a music in the breath of man. 
Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, 
Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun 
Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm. 
Devoutly blending in his happy soul 
Thoughts both of earth and heaven ! — Yon 

mountain-side. 
Rejoicing in its clustering cottages, 
Appears to me a paradise preserved 
From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath 
Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to hea- 
ven, 
In its straight silence holy as a spire 
Rear'd o'er the house of God. 

Thy sanctity 
Time yet hath reverenced ; and I deeply feel 
That innocence her shrine shall here preserve 
For ever. — The wild vale that lies beyond, 
Circled by mountains trod but by the feet 
Of venturous shepherd, from all visitants. 
Save the free tempests and the fowls of heaven, 
Guards thee ; — and the wooded knolls fantastical 
Seclude thy image from the gentler dale. 
That by the Brathay's often-varied voice 
Cheer' d as it winds along, in beauty fades 
'Mid the green banks of joyful Windermere ! 

gentlest Lake ! from all unhallow'd things 
By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness. 
Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet 
Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dyes, 
And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens. 
May innocence for ever lead me here. 
To form amid the silence high resolves 
For future life ; resolves, that, born in peace, 
Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild 
As infants in their play, when brought to bear 
On the world's business, shall assert their power 
And majesty — and lead me boldly on 
Like giants conquering in a noble cause. 

This is a holy faith, and full of cheer 
To all who worship Nature, that the hours, 



Past tranquilly with her, fade not away 
For ever like the clouds, but in the sou! 
Possess a secret silent dwelling-place. 
Where with a smiling visage memory > s, 
And startles oft the virtuous with a shu 
Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake ! 
Oft hast thou borne into my grateful ht rt 
Thy lovely presence, with a thousand c cams 
Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunn v wave, 
Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow 
Between us interposed. And even now. 
When yon bright star hath risen to warn me 

home, 
I bid thee farewell, in the certain hope 
That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes 
Shed cheering visions, and with freshest joy 
Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn 
Now sung by me unto thy listening woods, 
Be wholly vain, — ^but haply it may yield 
A gentle pleasure to some gentle heart, 
Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard, 
May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks 
Frame visions of his own, and other songs 
More beautiful, to Nature and to Thee! 



MARY. 



Three days before my Mary's death, 

We walk'd by Grassmere shore; 
" Sweet Lake !" she said with faltering breath, 

" I ne'er shall see thee more !" 

Then turning round her languid head, 

She look'd me in the face ; 
And whisper'd, " When thy friend is dead. 

Remember this lone place." 

Vainly I struggled at a smile 

That did my fears betray ; 
It seem'd that on our darling isle 

Foreboding darkness lay. 

My Mary's words were words of truth ; 

None now behold the Maid ; 
Amid the tears of age and youth 

She in her grave was laid. 

Long days, long nights, I ween, were past 

Ere ceased her funeral knell ; 
But to the spot I went at last \ 

Where she had breathed " farewell!" 

Methought I saw the phantom stand 

Beside the peaceful wave ; 
I felt the pressure of her hand^ 

Then look'd towards her grave. 

Fair, fair, beneath the evening sky 

The quiet church-yard lay : 
The tall pine-grove most solemnly 

Hung mute above her clay. 

Dearly she loved their arching spread. 

Their music wild and sweet, 
And, as she wished on her death-bed. 

Was buried at their feet. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



361 



Around her grave a beauteous fence 
Of wild-flowers shed their breath, 

Smilitig Hke infant innocence 
Within the gloom of death. 

Such flowers from bank of mountain-brook 

At eve we used to bring, 
When every little mossy nook 

Betray'd returning Spring. 

Oft had I fix'd the simple wreath 

Upon her virgin breast ; 
But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe 

Around her bed of rest. 

* 

Yet all within my silent soul 

■ As the hush'd air was calm ; 
The natural tears that slowly stole 
Assuaged my grief like balm. 

The air, that seem'd so thick and dull 

For months unto my eye ; 
Ah me ! how bright and beautiful 

It floated on the sky ! 

A trance of high and solemn bliss 

From purest ether came ; 
'Mid such a heavenly scene as this 

Death is an empty name ! 

The memory of the past return'd 

Like music to my heart ,-^ 
It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd, 

When we were told to part. 

" God's mercy," to myself I said, 

" To both our souls is given — 
To me, sojourning on earth's shade. 

To her — a Saint in Heaven !" 



LINES 



WRITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL BY THE ROAD- 
SIDE, LANGDALE. 

Thou lonely spring of waters undefiled ! 
Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell. 
Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side 
From which thou hadst thy birth, I bless thy 

gleam 
Of clearest coldness, with as deep-felt joy 
As pilgrim kneeling at his far-sought shrine ; 
And as I bow to bathe my freshen'd heart 
In thy restoring radiance, from my lips 
A breathing prayer sheds o'er thy glassy sleep 
A gentle tremor ! 

Nor must I forget 
A benison for the departed soul 
Of him, who, many a year ago, first shaped 
This little Font, — imprisoning the spring 
Not wishing to be free, with smooth slate-stone, 
Now in the beauteous colouring of age 
Scarcely distmguished from the natural rock. 
In blessed hour the solitary man 
46 



Laid the first stone, — and in his native vale 
It serves him for a peaceful monument, 
'Mid the hill-silence. 

Renovated life 
Now flows through all my veins : — old dreams 

revive ; 
And while an airy pleasure in my brain 
Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze. 
Even with a happy lover's kindest looks. 
On Thee, delicious Fountain I 

Thou dost shed 
(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air 
And parch the yellow hills) all round thy cave 
A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring 
Breathes with his April showers. The narrow 

lane 
On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks, 
That from the road-side gently lead the eye 
Up to thy bed, — ah me ! how rich a green, 
Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd 

grass ! 
With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze, 
Now that my thirsty soul is gratified. 
Live on the little cell ! The water there, 
Variously dappled by the wreathed sand 
That sleeps below in many an antic shape, 
Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen 
Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip 
From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand 
Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse 
Tells of the living principle within, — 
A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild. 

Yea, seldom heard : there is but one lone cot 
Beyond this well: — it is inhabited 
By an old shepherd during summer months, 
And haply he may drink of the pure spring, 
To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn 
Going to pray, — or as he home returns 
At silent eve : or traveller such as I, 
Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, 
Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst 
Once in a season. Other visitants 
It hath not ; save perchance the mountain-crow. 
When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt 
Leaving its pasture for the shady lane. 

Methinks, in such a solitary cave. 
The fairy forms belated peasant sees 
Oft nightly dancing in a gUttering ring 
On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire 
To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe 
Their tiny limbs in this transparent well. 
A fitter spot there is not : flowers are here 
Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell, 
Native to these our hills, and ever seen 
A fairest family by the happy side 
Of their own parent spring ; — and others too, 
Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy, 
Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth, 
Here smile like strangers in a novel scene. 
Lo ! a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom, 
Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans 
Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart 
Seems, whh its smiles of lonely loveliness. 
Like some fair virgin at the humble door 



362 JOHN WILSON. 


Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet 


Gone tripping up the brae ? 


The way-bewilder'd traveller. 


Till far behind their Town doth stand, 




Like an image in sweet Fairy Land, 


But my soul 


When the Elves have flown aw:i^ ! 


Long pleased to linger by this silent cave, 


— sure if aught of human breaih 


Nursing its wild and playful fantasies, 


Within these walls remain. 


Pants for a loftier pleasure, — and forsakes, 


Thus deepening in the hush of death, 


Though surely with no cold ingratitude. 


'Tis but some melancholy Crone, 


The flowers and verdure round the sparkling 


Who sits with solemn eyes 


well. 


Beside the cradle all alone. 


A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths. 


And lulls the infant with a strain 


And it must be obey'd : Yon ledge of rocks, 


Of Scotia's ancient melodies. 


Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow, 




Is ready for my footsteps, and even now. 


What if these homes be filled with life ? 


Wastwater blackens far beneath my feet, 


'Tis the sultry month of June, , 


She the storm-loving Lake. 


And when the cloudless sun rides high 




Above the glittering air of noon. 


Sweet Fount ! — Farewell ! 


All nature sinks opprest, — 




And labour shuts his weary eye 




In the mid-day hour of rest. 




Yet let the soul think what it will. 




Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill 


THE DESOLATE VILLAGE. 


How different once its flow ! 




When v/ith a dreamy motion ghding 


FIRST DREAM. 


'Mid its green fields in love abiding. 




Or leaping o'er the mossy linn. 


Sweet Village 1 on thy pastoral hill 


And sporting with its own wild din, 


Array'd in sunlight sad and still, 


Seem'd water changed to snow. 


As if beneath the harvest-moon, 


Beauty lies spread before my sight. 


Thy noiseless homes were sleeping ! 


But grief-like shadows dim its light. 


It is the merry month of June, 


And all the scene appears 


And creatures all of air and earth 


Like a church-yard when a friend is dying, 


Should now their holiday of mirth 


In more than earthly stillness lying. 


With dance and song be keeping. 


And glimmering through our tears ! 


But, loveliest Village ! silent Thou, 




As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow, 


Sweet Woodburn ! Hke a cloud that name 


When light is faintly breaking. 


Comes floating o'er my soul ! 


And Midnight's voice afar is lost, 


Although thy beauty still survive. 


Like the waiHng of a wearied ghost, 


One look hath changed the whole. 


The shades of earth forsaking. 


The gayest village of the gay 




Beside thy own sweet river, 


'Tis not the Day to Scotia dear. 


Wert Thou on Week or Sabbath day ! 


A summer Sabbath mild and clear ! 


So bathed in the blue light of joy, 


Yet from her solemn burial-ground 


As if no trouble could destroy 


The small Kirk Steeple looks around. 


Peace doom'd to last for ever. 


Enshrouded in a calm 


Now in the shadow of thy trees 


Profound as fills the house of prayer. 


Still lovely in the tainted breeze, 


Ere from the band of virgins fair 


The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies 


Exhales the choral psalm. 


And broods, as in despite 


A sight so steeped in perfect rest 


Of uncomplaining lifelessness. 


Is slumbering not on nature's breast 


On the troops of silent shades that press 


In the smiles of earthly day ! 


Into the church-yard's cold recess. 


'Tis a picture floating down the sky. 


From that region of deUght. 


By fancy framed in years gone by, 




And mellowing in decay ! 


Last summer from the school-house door. 


That thought is gone ! — the Village still 


When the glad play -bell was ringing. 


With deepening quiet crowns the hill. 


What shoals of bright-haired elves would pour, 


Its low green roofs are there ! 


Like small waves racing on the shore. 


In soft material beauty beaming, 


In dance of rapture singing ! 


As in the silent hour of dreaming 


Oft by yon little silver well. 


They hung embowered in air ! 


Now sleeping in neglected cell. 




The village-maid would stand. 


Is this the Day when to the mountains 


While resting on the mossy bank 


The happy shepherds go. 


With freshened soul the traveller drank 


And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains 


The cold cup from her hand ; 


Their flocks made white as snow? 


Haply some soldier from the war. 


Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy, 


Who would remember long and far 


With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy, 


That Lily of the Land. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



363 



ilnd :^nll the green is bright with flowers, 
And dancing through the sunny hours, 
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers 
On a sudden wafted by, 
Obedient to the changeful air, 
And proudly feeling they are fair, 
Glide bird and butterfly. 

But v.here is the tiny hunter-rout 
That revell'd on with dance and shout 
Agai;:st their airy prey? 
Alas I the fearless linnet sings. 
And the bright insect folds its wings 
Upon the dewy flower that springs 
Above these children's clay. 
And if to yon deserted well 
Some solitary maid, 
As she was wont at eve — should go- 
There silent as her shade 
She stands awhile — then sad and slow 
Walks home, afraid to think 
Of many a loudly-laughing ring 
That dipp'd their pitchers in that spring, 
And hngered round its brink. 

On — on — through woeful images 

My spirit holds her way ! 

Death in each drooping flower she sees: 

And oft the momentary breeze 

Is singing of decay. 

— So high upon the slender bough 

Why hangs the crow her nest ? 

All undisturbed her young have lain 

This spring-time in their nest ; 

Nor as they flew on tender wing 

E'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling. 

Tame as the purpling turtle-dove, 

That walks serene in human love, 

The magpie hops from door to door ; 

And the hare, not fearing to be seen. 

Doth gambol on the village green 

As on the lonely moor. 

The iew sheep wandering by the brook 

Have all a dim neglected look. 

Oft bleating in their dumb distress 

On her their sweet dead shepherdess. 

The horses pasturing through the range 

Of gateless fields, all common now. 

Free from the yoke enjoy the change. 

To them a long long Sabbath-sleep ! 

Then gathering in one thunderous band, 

Across the wild they sweep. 

Tossing the long hair from their eyes — 

Till far the living whirlwind flies 

As o'er the desert sand. 

From human let their course is free — 

No lonely angler down the lea 

Invites the zephyr's breath — 

And the beggar far away doth roam, 

Preferring in his hovel-home 

His penury to death. 

On that green hedge a scatter'd row 

Now weather-stain' d — once white as snow- 

Of garments that have long been spread, 

And now belong unto the dead. 

Shroud-like proclaim to every eye, 

" This is no place ibr charity !" 



O blest are ye ! unthinking creatures ! 

Rejoicing in your lowly natures 

Ye dance round human tombs ! 

Where gladlier sings the mountain lark 

Than o'er the church-yard dim and dark! 

Or where, than on the church-yard wall, 

From the wild rose-tree brighter fall 

Her transitory blooms ! 

What is it to that lovely sky 

If all her worshippers should die ! 

As happily her splendours play 

On the grave where human forms decay, 

As o'er the dewy turf of Morn, 

Where the virgin, hke a woodland Fay 

On wings of joy was borne. 

— Even now a soft and silvery haze 

Hill — Village — Tree — is steeping 

In the loveUness of happier days, 

Ere rose the voice of weeping ! 

When incense-fires from every hearth 

To heaven stole beautiful from earth. 

Sweet Spire ! that crown'st the house of God t 
To thee my spirit turns. 
While through a cloud the soften' d light 
On thy yellow dial burns. 
Ah, me ! my bosom inly bleeds 
To see the deep-worn path that leads 
Unto that open gate ! 
In silent blackness it doth tell 
How oft thy little sullen bell 
Hath o'er the village toll'd its knell, 
In beauty desolate. 
Oft, wandering by myself at night, 
Such spire hath risen in soften' d light 
Before my gladden'd eyes, — 
And as I look'd around to see 
The village sleeping quietly 
Beneath the quiet skies, — 
Methought that "mid her stars so bright. 
The moon in placid mirth, 
•Was not in heaven a holier sight 
Than God's house on the earth. 
Sweet image I tratisient in my soul! 
That very bell hath ceased to toll 
When the grave receives its dead — 
And the last time it slowly swung, 
'Twas by a dying stripling rung 
O'er the sexton's hoary head ! 
All silent now from cot or hall 
Comes forth the sable funeral ! 
The Pastor is not there ! 
For yon sweet Manse now empty stands. 
Nor in its walls will holier hands 
Be e'er held up in prayer. 

BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 

SECOND DREAM. 

hush'd be our souls as this Burial-ground! 

And let our feet without a sound 

Glide o'er the mournful clay ; 

For lo ! two radiant Creatures flitting 

O'er the grave-stones! now moveless sitting 

On a low funeral mound ! 'Tis day ! 

And, but that ghosts where'er they rove 

Do in their breathless beauty love 



J>64 



JOHN WILSON. 



The cold, the wan, and the silent light 

O'er the Church-yard shed by the Queen of 

Night, 
Sure Sister Shades were They ! 
— Of many 'tis the holy faith. 
Ere from the dying frame 
Departs the latest hngering breath, 
Its earthly garb the same, 
A shadowy Likeness still doth come, 
A noiseless, pale-faced, beckoning Wraith, 
To call the Stranger home 1 
Or, are ye Angels ! who from bliss, 
With dewy fall, unto our earth 
On wings of Paradise descend. 
The grave of Innocence to kiss, 
And tears of an immortal birth 
With human tears to blend ! 
Aye ! there they sit ! hke earthly Creatures 
With softer, sadder, fainter features ! 
A Halo round each head ; 
Fair Things whose earthly course is o'er, 
And who bring from some far-distant shore 
The beauty that on earth they wore, 
With the silence of the dead. 

The dream of Ghost and Angel fades, 

And I gaze upon two Orphan-Maids, 

Frail Creatures, doom'd to die ! 

Spirits may be fair in their heavenly sleep, 

But sure when mortal Beings weep 

In tears a beauty hes more deep. 

The glimmering of mortality ! 

Their aged Friend in slumber lies, 

And hath closed for an hour the only eyes 

That ever cheer'd their orphan-state. 

At the hour of birth left desolate ! 

She sleeps 1 and now these Maids have come 

With mournful hearts to this mournful home, 

Led here by a pensive train 

Of thoughts still brooding on the dead ! 

For they have watched the breast of Pain 

Till it moved not on its bed, 

The lifeless lips together prest, 

And many a ghastly body drest. 

And framed the shroud for the corse of bone 

That lay unheeded and alone. 

When all hs friends were dead and gone ! 

So they walk not to yon breezy mountain 

To sit in the shade of its silvery fountain, 

And 'mid that lofty air serene 

Forget the dim and waihng scene 

That spreads beneath their feet ! 

They walk not down yon fairy stream 

Whose Hquid lapses sweet 

Might wrap them in some happy dream 

Of a pure, calm, far retreat, 

As on the rivulet seems to flow. 

Escaping from a world of Woe ! 

But this still realm is their delight. 

And hither they repair 

Communion with the Dead to hold ! 

Peaceful, as at the fall of night, 

Two httle Lambkins ghding white 

Return unto the gentle air 

That sleeps within the Fold. 

Or hke two Birds to their lonely nest, 

Or wearied waves to their bay of rest, 



Or fleecy clouds, when their race is run, 
That hang, in their own beauty blest, 
'Mid the calm that sanctifies the wer?t 
Around the setting Sun. 

Phantoms ! ye waken to mine eye 

Sweet trains of earthly imagery ! 

Whate'er on Nature's breast is found 

In loveliness without a sound, 

That silent seems to soul and sense, 

Emblem of perfect Innocence ! 

Two radiant dew-drops that repose 

On mossy bank at Evening's close. 

And, happy in the gentle weather, 

In beauty disappear together ! 

Two flowers upon the lonesome moor. 

When a dim day of storm is o'er. 

Lifting up their yellow hair 

To meet the balm of the slumbering air. 

Two Sea-birds from the troubled ocean 

Floating with a snowy motion. 

In the absence of the gale 

Over a sweet inland vale ! 

Two early-risen Stars that lie 

Together on the Evening-sky, 

And imperceptibly pursue 

Their walk along the depths "of blue. 

— Sweet Beings ! on my dreams ye rise 

With all your frail humanities ! 

Nor Earth below, nor Heaven above, 

An image yields of Peace and Love, 

So perfect as your pensive breath 

That brings unsought a dream of death ! 

Each sigh more touching than the last, 

Till Life's pathetic tune be past ! 

THE DEPARTURE. 

THIRD DREAM. 

The grave is fiU'd and the turf is spread 
To grow together o'er the dead. 
The little daisies bright and fair 
Are looking up scarce injured there, 
And one v/arm night of summer-dew 
Will all their wonted smiles renew, 
Restoring to its blooming rest 
A soft couch for the sky-lark's breast. 
The funeral-party, one by one 
Have given their blessing and are gone- 
Prepared themselves ere long to die, 
A small, sad, silent company. 
The orphans robed in spotless white 
Yet linger in the holy ground. 
And shed all o'er that peaceful mound 
A radiance hke the wan moonlight. 
— Then from their mother's grave they glide 
Out of the church-yard side by side. 
Just at the gate they pause and turn — 
I hear sad blended voices mourn 
" Mother, farewell !" the last endeavour 
To send their souls back to the clay. 
Then they hide their eyes — and walk away 
From her grave — 'now and for ever ! 

Not till this parting invocation 
To their mother's buried breast, 
Had they felt the power of desolation ! 



i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



365 



Long as she lived, the village lay 

Calm — unrepining in decay — 

For grief was its own consolation. 

And death ?eem'd only rest. 

— But non a dim and sullen breath 

Hath cha.ucter'd the face of death ; 

And tears, and sighs, and sobs, and wailing, 

All round — .I'er human joy prevailing — 

Or 'mid -iic pausing fits of woe, 

Wild silence, like a depth of snow 

Shrouding m slumber stern and dull 

The spring-fields late so beautiful. 

Upon their fainting spirits press 

With weight of utter hopelessness, 

And drive them off, they heed not where, 

So that oblivion's ebbless wave 

May lie for ever on one grave, 

One village of despair. 

Faint with such spectacles of woe 

Towards their solitary home 

Across the village-green they go — 

Eyeing the streamlet's murmuring flow. 

Where melt away the specks of foam, 

Like human creatures dying 

'Mid their voyage down life's peaceful stream, 

Upon the bosom of a dream 

In thoughtless pleasure lying. 

Calm reveries of composing grief! 

Whose very sadness yields relief 

To heart, and soul, and eye. 

The Orphans look around — and lo ! 

How touching is that Lilac's glow, 

Beneath the tall Laburnum's bow 

That dazzling spans the sky ! 

That golden gleam — that gentle fire 

Forces even anguish to admire ; 

And gently cheers away distress 

By the power of nature's loveliness. 

From many a little garden steal 

Odours that have been wasting long 

A sweetness there was none to feel ; 

And from the hidden flowers a song 

Of bees, in happy multitude 

All busy in that solitude. 

An image brings of all the strife 

And gladness of superior life, 

Till man seem, 'mid these insects blest, 

A brother-insect hardly miss'd. 

They seize that transient calm ; the door 

Of their own cottage op6n stands — 

Far lonelier than one hour before. 

When they with weak and trembhng hands 

The head of that dear coffin bore 

Unto its darksome bed ! 

To them far drearier than the tomb, 

The naked silence of the room 

Deserted by the dead. 

They kiss the dim and senseless walls, 

Then hurry fast away ; 

Some sudden thought their feet recalls. 

And trifles urge their stay, 

Till with the violence of despair 

They rush into the open air, 

And bless its thatch and sheltering tree, 

Then leave it everlastingly ! 



— On, on they go, in sorrow blind, 

Yet with a still and gentle motion 

That speaks the inner soul resign'd ; 

Like httle billows o'er the ocean 

Still flowing on with tide and \yind. 

And though the tempest smite their breast, 

Reaching at last some bay of rest, 

God bless them on their pilgrimage I 

And may his hand divine 

With healing dew their woes assuage. 

When they have reach'd that silent shrine 

By nature framed in the open air, 

With soft turf for the knees of prayer, 

And dome of many a pastoral hill 

Lying in heaven serene and still ; 

For, pilgrims ne'er to Sion went 

More mournful, or more innocent. 

Before the rueful Cross to lie 

At midnight on Mount Calvary. 

Two favourite sheep before them go — 

Each v^dth its lambs of spotless snow 

Frisking around with pattering feet. 

With peaceful eyes and happy bleat. 

Happy ! yet hke a soft complaint ! 

As if at times the voice of sorrow 

Through the hush'd air came breathing faint 

From blessed things that fear no morrow. 

— Each Shepherdess holds in her hand 

A verdant crook of the willow-wand. 

Wreathed round with melancholy flowers 

Gather'd 'mid the hills in happier hours. 

In a small cage a thrush is sitting — 

Or restless as the light 

That through his sunny prison plajrs, 

From perch to perch each moment flitting, 

His quick and glancing eye surveys 

The novel trees and fields so bright. 

And like a torrent gushing strong 

He sends through heaven his sudden song, 

A song that all dim thought destroys, 

And breathes o'er all its own wild joys. 

As on the Orphans hold their way 

Through the stillness of the dying day. 

Fairies might they seem who are returning, 

At the end of some allotted time, 

Unto their own immortal chme ! 

Each bearing in its lovely hand 

Some small memorial of the land 

Where they, hke common human frames, 

And call'd by gentle Christian names, 

For long had been sojourning I 

Some little fair insensate thing. 

Relic of that wild visiting ! 

Bird that beneath a brighter sprmg 

Of its own vanish'd earth will sing ; 

Those harmless creatures that will glide 

O'er faery vales in earthly snow. 

And from the faery river's flow 

Come forth more purely beautified. 

Now with a wild and mournful song, 
The fair procession moves along, 
While, by that tune so sweet 
The little flock delighted, press 
As if with human tenderness 



366 



JOHN WILSON. 



Around the singer's feet. 
Up — up the gentle slope they wind, 
Leaving the laughing flowers behind 
That seem to court their stay. 
One moment on the top they stand, 
At the wild-unfolding vale's command, 
—Then down into that faery land 
Dream-like they sink away ! 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BER6HEM, 
OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER. 

Poor wretch ! that blasted leafless tree, 
More frail and death-Hke even than thee, 
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form ; 
The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven 
Full in thy face are coldly driven, 
As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. 

Yet chill'd with cold and drench' d with rain, 
Mild creature ! thou dost not complain 
By sound or look of these ungracious skies ; 
Calmly as if in friendly shed, 
There stand'st thou, with unmoving head. 
And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed 
eyes. 

Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze 
On thee ; nor am I loth to praise 
Him whom in moral mood this image drew ; 
And yet, methinks, that I could frame 
An image different, yet the same, 
More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature 
true. 

Behold a lane retired and green, 
Winding amid a forest-scene 
With blooming furze in many a radiant heap ; 
There is a browsing Ass espied, 
One colt is frisking by her side, 
And one among her feet is safely stretch' d in 
sleep. 

And lo ! a little maiden stands, 
With thistles in her tender hands. 
Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat ; 
Or gently down before him lays. 
With words of solace and of praise. 
Pluck' d from th' untrodden turf the herbage soft 
and sweet. 

The summer sun is sinking down. 
And the peasants from the market -town 
With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning ; 
Groups of gay children too are there, 
Stirring with mirth the silent air. 
O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter 
burning. 

The Ass hath got his burthen still . 
The merry elves the panniers fill ; 
Dehghted there from side to side they swing : 
The creature heeds nor shout nor call, 



But jogs on careless of them all. 
Whether in harmless sport theygaiJy strike o» 
sing. 

A gipsey-group ! the secret wood 

Stirs through its leafy solitude. 

As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune ; 

Th' unpannier'd Ass slowly retires 

From the brown tents and sparkling fires. 

And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon. 

The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, 
More pensive 'mid this scene of glee 
That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest ; 
The soul of all her softest rays 
On yonder placid creature plays. 
As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the 
opprest. 

But now the silver moonbeams fade. 
And, peeping through a flowery glade, 
Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies : 
An Ass stands meek and patient there, 
And by her side a spectre fair. 
To drink the balmy cup once more before she 
dies. 

With tenderest care the pitying dame 

Supports the dying maiden's frame. 

And strives with laughing looks her heart to 

cheer; 
While playful children crowd around 
To catch her eye by smile or sound, 
Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady 

dear ! 

I feel this mournful dream impart 
A hoher image to my heart, 
For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth ; 
Blest creature ! through the solemn night, 
I see thee bathed in heavenly light. 
Shed from that wondrous child — The Saviour of 
the Earth. 

When flying Herod's murd'rous rage, 

Thou on that wretched pilgrimage 

Didst gently near the virgin-mother he ; 

On thee the humble Jesus sate. 

When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate 

To see 'mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by, 

Happy thou wert, nor low thy praise. 

In peaceful patriarchal days. 

When countless tents slow pass'd from land to 

land 
Like clouds o'er heaven ; the gentle race 
Such quiet scene did meetly grace, 
Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately 

band. 

Poor wretch ! my musing dream is o'er ; 

Thy shivering form I view once more. 

And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove; 

But they whose thoughtful spirits see 

The truth of life, will pause with me, 

And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



367 



PRAYER TO SLEEP. 

GENTLK Sleep '. wilt Thou lay thy head 
For one In tie hour on thy Lover's bed, 
And none but the silent stars of night 
Shall witness be to our delight ! 

Alas ! 'tis said that the Couch must be 
Of the Eider-down that is spread for Thee, 
^0, I in my sorrow must lie alone, 
For mine, sweet Sleep I is a Couch of stone. 

Music to Thee I know is dear ; 
Then, the saddest of music is ever here. 
For Grief sits with me in my cell. 
And she is a Syren who singeth well. 

But Thou, glad Sleep ! lovest gladsome airs, 
And wilt only come to thy Lover's prayers 
When bells of merriment are ringing, 
And bliss with Hquid voice is singing. 

Fair Sleep ! so long in thy beauty woo'd. 
No Rival hast Thou in my soHtude ; 
Be mine, my Love ! and we two will he 
Embraced for ever — or awake to die ! 

Dear Sleep ! farewell ! — hour, hour, hour, hour, 
Will slowly bring on the gleam of Morrow, 
But Thou art Joy's faithful Paramour, 
And lie wilt Thou not in the arms of Sorrow. 



MELROSE ABBEY. 

It was not when the Sun through the ghttering 

sky. 
In summer's joyful majesty, 
Look'd from his cloudless height ; — 
It was not when the Sun was sinking down. 
And tinging the ruin's mossy brown 
With gleams of ruddy light ; — 
Nor yet when the Moon, Kke a pilgrim fair, 
'Mid star and planet journeyed slow, 
And, mellowing the stillness of the air. 
Smiled on the world below ; 
That, Melrose ! 'mid thy mouldering pride. 
All breathless and alone, 
I grasp' d the dreams to day denied, 
High dreams of ages gone ! — 
Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there. 
His heart had turn'd to stone ! 
For oft, though felt no moving gale, 
Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud. 
Through the lofty Oriel opening pale, 
Was seen the hurrying cloud ; 
And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall 
Frown'd black as bier's mysterious pall 
From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer ; 
It seem'd as if sound had ceased to be ; 
Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree. 
Relieved the noiseless ear. 
The owl had sailed from her silent tower, 
Tweed hush'd his weary wave, 
The time was midnight's moonless hour, 
My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave ! 



My being was subhmed by joy. 
My heart was big, yet I could not weep ; 
I felt that God would ne'er destroy 
The mighty in their tranced sleep. 
Within the pile no common dead 
Lay blended with their kindred mould ; 
Theirs were the hearts that pray'd, or bled, 
In cloister dim, on death-plain red, 
The pious and the bold. 
There slept the saint whose holy strains 
Brought seraphs round the dying bed ; 
And there the warrior, who to chains 
Ne'er stoop'd his crested head. 
I felt my spirit sink or swell 
With patriot rage or lowly fear, 
As battle-trump, or convent-bell, 
Rung in my tranced ear. 
But dreams prevail'd of loftier mood, 
When stern beneath the chancel high 
My country's spectre-monarch stood. 
All sheath'd in glittering panoply; 
Then I thought with pride what noble blood 
Had flow'd for the hills of liberty. 

High the resolves that fill the brain 
With transports trembling upon pain. 
When the veil of time is rent in twain. 
That hides the glory past ! 
The scene may fade that gave them birth. 
But they perish not with the perishing earth, 
For ever shall they last. 
And higher, I ween, is that mystic might 
That comes to the soul from the silent night. 
When she walks, hke a disembodied spirit. 
Through realms her sister shades inherit. 
And soft as the breath of those blessed flowers 
That smile in Heaven's unfading bowers, 
With love and awe, a voice she hears 
Murmuring assurance of immortal years. 
In hours of lonehness and woe 
Which even the best and wisest know, 
How leaps the Hghten'd heart to seize 
On the bliss that comes with dreams hke these ! 
As fair before the mental eye 
The pomp and beauty of the dream return, 
Dejected virtue calms her sigh, 
And leans resign'd on memory's urn. 
She feels how weak is mortal pain. 
When each thought that starts to life again 
Tells that she hath not lived in vain. 

For Solitude, by Wisdom woo'd, 
Is ever mistress of delight. 
And even in gloom or tumult view'd. 
She sanctifies their living blood 
Who learn her lore aright. 
The dreams her awful face imparts 
Unhallcved mirth destroy ; 
Her griefs bestow on noble hearts 
A nobler power of joy. 
While hope and faith the soul thus fill, 
We smile at chance distress, 
And drink the cup of human ill 
In stately happiness. 

Thus even where death his empire keeps 
Life holds the pageant vain, 
And where the lofty spirit sleeps, 
There lofty visions reign, 



368 



JOHN WILSON. 



Yea, often to night-wandering man 
A pow'r fate's dim decrees to scan, 
In lonely trance by bliss is given ; 
And midnight's starless silence rolls 
A giant vigour through our souls, 
That stamps us sons of Heaven. 

Then, Meluose ! Tomb of heroes old ! 
Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee ; 
The visions that can ne'er be told. 
That only poets in their joy can see, 
The glory borne above the sky 
The deep-felt weight of sanctity ! 
Th}' m.assy towers I view no more 
Through brooding darkness rising hoar, 
Like a broad line of light dim seen 
Some sable mountain-cleft between ! 
Since that dread hour, hath human thought 
A thousand gay creations brought 
Before my earthly eye : 
I to the world have lent an ear. 
Delighted all the while to hear 
The voice of poor mortality. 
Yet, not the less doth there abide 
Deep in my soul a holy pride, 
That knows by whom it was bestow'd, 
Lofty to man, but low to God ; 
Such pride as hymning angels cherish, 
Blest in the blaze where man would perish. 



SONNET. 

THE EVENING CLOUD. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : 
Long had I watch' d the glory moving on 
O'er the still radiance of the Lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! 
Even in its very motion, there was rest: 
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Right onward to the golden gates of Heaven, 
Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 



SONNET, 



WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST. 

It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd 

O'er thy dim vastness, Skiddaw ! — Mist and 

cloud 
Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast 
To thee made darling music, wild and loud, 
Thou Mountain-Monarch ! Rain in torrents 

play'd, 
As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven, 
A watery spire, then on the crew dismay' d 
Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven. 



I could have thought that every ii^ijie form 
Had fled, or perish'd in that savage storm. 
So desolate the day. To me were L-iven 
Peace, calmness, joy : then to myself I said. 
Can grief, time, chance, or elemeiots control 
Man's charter'd prMe, the Liberty "f aoul? 



THE MAGIC MIRROR, 

Methought beneath a Castle huge I stood, 

That seem'd to grow out of a rock sublime, 
Through the dominion of its sohtude 

Augustly frowning on the rage of Time. 
Its lofty minarets, indistinct and dim, 

Look'd through the brooding clouds; and as a 

smile 

Of passing sunlight show'd these structures grim 

Burning like fire, I could have thought the 

while 

That they were warriors keeping watch on 

_ high. 
All motionless, and sheathed in radiant panoply 

What mortal feet these rampart-heights might 
scale ! 

Lo ! hke black atoms mingling in the sky 
The far-off rooks and their fleet shadows sail ; 

Scarce hears the soul their melancholy cry. 
What lovely colours bathed the frowning brow 

Of that imperial mansion ! Radiant green, 
And purple fading in a yellow glow I 

Oh ! lovelier ne'er on mossy bank was seen 
In vernal joy ; while bands of charter'd flowers 
Revell'd like fairy sprites along their palace 
towers. 

Down sunk the draw-bridge with a thund'ring 
shock ; 
And, in an instant, ere the eye could know. 
Bound the stern castle to th' opposing rock, 

And hung in calmness o'er the flood below ;— ■ 
A roaring flood, that, born amid the hills, 

Forced his lone path through many a darksome 
glen, 
Till, join'd by all his tributary rills. 
From lake and tarn, from marish and from 
fen, 
He left his empire with a kingly glee, 
And fiercely bade recoil the billows of the sea. 

I felt it was a dream, nor wish'd to wake. 

Though dim and pale by fits the vision grew. 
And oft that vision dwindled to a lake. 

And cliff and castle from the clouds withdrew. 
Oft, all I heard was but a gentle swell. 

Like the ^^^ld music of the summer leaves ; 
Till, Hke an army mustering in the dell, 

The blasts came rushing from their pine-clad 
caves, V 

And swept the silence of the scenes away. 
Even dike a city storm'd upon the Sabbath-day.' 



* The image in this line is from a poem of Mr. Cole- 
ridge. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



369 



Though strange my dream, I knew the Scottish 
strand, 

And the bold Frith that roUing fiercely bright 
Far-distant faded 'mid that mountain land. 

As 'mid dark clouds a sudden shower of light. 
Long have ray lips been mute in Scotland's praise! 

Now is the hour for inspiration's song ! 
The shadowy glories of departed days 

Before my tranced soul in tumult throng, 
And I, with fearless voice, on them will call. 
From camp and battle-field, from princely bower 
and hall. 

With only my still shadow by my side. 

And Nature's Hfeless things that slept around, 
I seem'd to be I when, from the portal wide, 

Starthng as sudden light, or wandering sound, 
Onwards a figure came, with stately brow. 

And as he glanced upon the ruin'd Pile 
A look of regal pride, " Say, who art thou 

(His countenance bright 'ning with a scornful 
smile, 
He sternly cried) whose footsteps rash profane 
The wild romantic realm where I have will'd to 
reign ?" 

But ere to those proud words I could reply, 

How changed that scornful face to soft and 
mild; 
A witching frenzy glitter'd in his eye, 

Harmless, withal, as that of playful child. 
And when once more the gracious vision spoke, 

I felt the voice famihar to mine ear ; 
When many a faded dream of earth awoke. 

Connected strangely with that unknown Seer, 
Who now stretch'd forth his arm, and on the sand 
A circle round me traced, as with Magician's 
wand. 

Desire or power then had I none to move, 

In that sweet prison, a delighted thrall, 
Died all remembrances of daily love. 

Or, if they ghmmer'd, vain I held them all. 
Alone on that Magician could I gaze ; 

His voice alone compell'd was I to hear, 
Wild as the autumnal wind that fitful plays 

A wailing dirge unto the dying year, 
Amid the silence of the midnight hour, 
Moan'd through the ivied vv^indow of a mouldering 



He felt his might, and sported with my soul. 

Even as the sea-wind dalhes with a boat 
That now doth fleeter than the billows roll. 

Now, as at anchor, on the calm doth float. 
Nor needed he to see my senses lock'd 

In the dim maze of wildering fantasy ; 
But ever and anon my wonder mock'd 

With careless looks of gentle tyranny. 
Well-used was that Magician to the sight 
Of souls by him subdued to terror and delight. 

How bold the fearful oft in dreams become ! 

Familiar in the midst of all things strange ! 
Unshuddering then, with spirits will we roam. 

Calm and unconscious of the unearthly change! 
Even so it fared with me ; ere long I grew 

Familiar with the wizard of my dream, 
47 



When, from his lofty breast he slowly drew 

What seem'd a Mirror by its glancing gleam. 
And bade me therein look, where I might see 
Wild sights come floating by in clouds of gla- 
moury. 

Then burn'd that glass insufferably bright, 

Till closed my eyelids with the sudden pain ; 
As, when the downward rays of mid-day light 

Kindle to fire upon the verdant main. 
Ne'er diamond spark outshone the common air 

With purer radiance, nor the setting Sun 
Stream'd on the window of cathedral fair 

A deeper blaze, to tell his course was run : 
I gazed again ; and lo ! that Mirror soon 
With tenderest lustre smiled, like a September 
Moon. 

Unto another world it opening gave. 

There, castles stood majestic in their prime, 
And mailed chieftains, rising from the grave. 

Their banners hung o'er battlements sublime. 
Oft changed the magic scene ; here Lady bright, 

In hazel grove, beneath the western star,* 
Listen'd the love-tale of her faithful Knight ; 

Here the red beacon blazed, and to the war 
Fierce clans come rushing, while the blaze illumes 
Targe, spear, and battle-axe, and widely tossing 
plumes. 

How sweet the Moon on yon fair Abbey 
shone !t 

Bathing in liquid light so sadly faint 
The flowerets drooping pale in sculptured stone, 

And the still image of each mouldering saint. 
And what may bring a Warrior's crested headt 

Unto these holy courts and cloisters dim ? 
Thou daring spirit, why disturb the dead ? 

Yawns the damp tomb, and lo! a spectre 
grim, '5 
Yet with his dead face beautiful withal. 
Lies 'mid immortal light that fills the vaulted hall. 

The Abbey melted hke a cloud away, 

And many a gorgeous pageant charm'd ray 
heart : 
But how may I recount in feeble lay 

The beauteous marvels of that wizard's art ? 
No ! not unto myself dare I to tell 

What various visions o'er that Mirror roU'd, 
Till view'd my soften'd soul a lovely dell, 

Where upon Yarrow's banks a Minstrel oldl! 
Did sit, and wake to lords and ladies high 
The last expiring strains of Border Minstrelsy. 

Gone was the Magic Glass ! I look'd around ; 

There hung the castle, hke a thunder-cloud 
Above the darken'd sea whose hollow sound 

Subdued my spirit more than tempest loud ; 
And by my side, upon that solemn shore, 

That Wizard strange did like an Image stand. 
Watching the working of the ancient lore 

That o'er the glass had pass'd at his command : 



* The meeting of Margaret and Cranstoun, in the Lay 
of the Last Minstrel. 
t Melrose. t Deloraine. H Michael Scott. 

II Conclusion of the Lay, of the Last Minstrel 



370 



JOHN WILSON. 



And when he saw me lost in wild surprise, 
Once more he flash' d its hght upon my startled 
eyes. 

Ye lesser glories, in my spirit sleep ! 

But proudly fling thy white arms to the sea, 
Queen of the unconquer'd North!* lo ! yonder 
deep, 

With all his subject waves, doth worship thee ! 
Stately thou sittest on thy mountain throne, 

Thy towers and temples like a cloudy sky ; 
And scarce canst tell what fabrics are thine own, 

Hung 'mid the air-built phantoms floating by. 
Oh I ne'er may that bright diadem be shorn, 
By thee, for many an age, majestically worn ! 

Nor dim and silent were thy regal halls, 

(The mansion, now, of grie^ and solitude!) 
But mirth and music shook thy pictured walls. 

And Scotland's monarch reign'din Holy-Rood. 
Well did I know, 'mid banneret and peer, 

Star of the Stuart-line, accomplish' d James ! 
His graceful words I almost seem'd to hear. 

As, lightly ranging 'mid those high-born 
dames. 
To each, in turn, some gallant wish he sigh'd. 
But linger'd still near one,t his ruin and his 
pride ! 

Thou field of carnage ! silent be thy name ! 
Where Scotland's royal standard sunk in 
blood ; 
While round their monarch, hke a guardian 
flame. 
Wasted in vain, his dying nobles stood. 
Gladly I saw dark clouds in tumult pass 

O'er that red sea of horror and despair ; 
And the last image in the Magic Glass, 

Even like the seraph Mercy, saintly fair. 
Over her wounded foe hung sorrowing, t 
And slaked his burning thirst with water from the 
spring. - 

"Dry up those tears," the gentle wizard cried, 

"Nor weep while nature in her glory smiles !" 
And lo ! with sylvan mountains beautified. 

Incumbent cliffs, lone bays, and fairy isles. 
Floated a lake^ that I could scarce behold. 

So bright it gleam' d with its enchanted waves! 
While ever and anon wild music roU'd 

From firactur'd rocks, and undiscover'd caves. 
As if some spirit warbled from the steep 
A low unearthly song, to charm the lake to 



A spirit ! — lo ! her fairy vessel glides 

Round the green edge of yonder oaken brake ! 
Before its prow the sparkUng wave divides 

In homage to the Lady of the Lake ! 
While, gazing from the shore, an armed Knightll 

Holds distant parley with that unknown Queen, 
Whose eyes, with fear and wonder, glistening 
bright. 

Lend a new wildness to the mountain scene ! 



* See the description of Edinburgh in Marmion. 

»"^j(iejieibn. t Clara and Marmion. 

"'ririe. 11 Fitz- James. 



loveUer far, in that bewilder'd trance. 

Than Lady of the Mere,* by shores of old 
romance ! 

Wild rose her palace, 'mid the unbroken calm. 

Burning with flowers, that like a wreith of 
light, 
Girdled the living dome, and breathing balm 

Sweet to the soul, as all those hues so bright ! 
The work of human hands it may not be. 

And unto dreams of fairy power gave birth ; 
Yet, 'mid such dreams, the spirit paused to see 

Some dim-discovered traces of this earth. 
While on that lady's countenance divine 
A pensive shadow lay, that told her mortal line. 

Yea ! worldly cares to that enchanted dome, 

Despite of Nature's guardian power, intrude; 
Though bathed in sunshine, yet a stormy gloom 

Is gathering o'er the hermit -solitude. 
In evil hour yon princely stranger came ! 

For ambush'd foemen glare from every dell :— 
Clan-Alpin hath beheld the Cross of Flame, 

The sign of war her children love so well ; 
And all her heathery mountains teem with life, 
With warriors gaunt and grim, and arm'd for 
mortal strife. 

Lake, rock, and mountain, cataract and flood. 
Mine eyes behold no more ; with eager breath, 

1 gaze on clashing faulchions dimm'd with blood, 

And plumed helms that seem to frown with 
death. 
One of those shapes so beautiful and brave. 

Like oak-tree sternly bending to the blast. 
Must fall this day, — but proud shall be his grave ! 

In wrath life's bootless energy hath past ! — 
Fallen is the eagle that so strongly flew — 
Long Celtic bards shall wail the dirge of Rode 
rick Dhu. 

Oh ! not by vulgar arm was Roderick slain ! 

Less than a king the victor may not be : 
See ! how his war-steed bears him o'er the plain, 

How nods his crest with regal majesty ! 
Strevlina's gate may bow her lofty head 

To kiss the plume that mock'd each hostile 
sword, 
Nor by such homage be dishonoured : 

Methinks, in his disguise, she knows her lord, 
As if beneath her arch King James did ride. 
With all his unhelm'd peerage by his gracious 
side. 

By kingly acts a king should aye be known ! 

Then look through yonder lustre-beaming hall t 
Stately the figures there, — yea ! every one ! 

But Scotland's monarch far outshines them all. 
And is she here, the Lady of the Lake? 

Hush thy quick beating heart, thou trembling 
thing I 
And let him smile who suffers for thy sake.t 

On your betrothed arms the golden ring 
The Knight of Snowden's kingly hands impose, 
A talisman that breaks the spell of all your woes. 



* See Wordsworth's Poems. 



t Grffime. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



371 



The wizard's voice here touch' d upon my heart, 
And quick I waked, hke one who, scarce 
asleep, 
Spring's from his slumber with a sudden start 

To shun some yawning gulf or headlong steep. 
"Thou lovest," said he, "on warlike pomp to 
gaze; 
'Tis a true Scottish pride — look here again. 
And dream no more of deeds of other days."— 
Glad I obey'd, — and lo ! the shores of Spain* 
Rose beautifully terrible like heaven. 
When all its lowering clouds in wrathful hosts are 
driven. 

Woe to yon Tyrant ! to his legions woe ! 
Joy 10 the vulture on his herdless rock ! 
Glad would ye be to hear the Ebro flow 
Once more, and leave the shepherd with his 
flock, 
Ye savage slaves, that shame the name of 
France ! 
But ne'er that sound of safety must ye hear. 
List ye that tread ! — the red-cross ranks advance ! 
Vain valour's stand, and vain the flight of fear. 
For who shall live, when, shouting in their joy, 
The British brother-bands move onwards to 
destroy ? 

Wasted on air were these warm words of mine — 

The wizard and his Magic Glass were fled ; 
The solemn hush, that speaks the day's decline, 

Across the sea without a wave was shed. 
The rooks had ceased their cawing in the sky, 

Nor humm'd the wild-bee on the wall-flower 
bright 
That on the old tower bloom' d luxuriantly ; 

Then rose the lovely star that brings the night, 
Till Luna enter' d on her placid reign. 
And a sweet crescent smiled, reflected from the 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

How calm and beautiful the frosty Night 
Has stolen unnoticed like the hush of sleep 
O'er Grassmere-vale ! Beneath the mellowing 

light 
How sinks in softness every rugged steep ! 
The old Church-tower a solemn watch doth keep 
O'er the sweet Village she adorns so well ; 
Faintly the freezing stream is heard to weep. 
Wild-murmuring far within its icy cell, 
And hark ! across the Lake, clear chimes the 

Chapel-bell. 

Soon will the Moon and all her stars be here : 
A stealing light proclaims her o'er yon hill ! 
Slowly she raiseth up her radiant sphere. 
And stillness, at her smile, becomes more still. 
My heart forgets all thoughts of human ill. 
And man seems happy as his place of birth : 
All things that yield him joy my spirit fill 



* Don Roderick. 



With kindred joy ; and ev'n his humblest mirth 
Seems at this peaceful hour to beautify the Earth. 

Beyond this vale my fancy may not fly, 

Held by its circle in a magic chain ; 

Of merry-making, and festivity 

Ev'n 'mid this moonlight-scene shall be my 

strain. 
Nor, gracious Nature ! when I wake again 
A hymn of loftier temper in thy praise. 
Wilt thou the Poet's homage-song disdain, 
For Thou hast never listen' d to his lays 
Who loved not lowly life and all its simple ways. 

Through many a vale how rang each snow-roof 'd 

cot, 
This livelong day with rapture blithe and wild ! 
All thoughts but of the lingering eve forgot 
Both by grave Parent, and light-hearted Child. 
Hail to the Night ! whose image oft beguiled 
Youth's transient sadness with a startling cheer ! 
The Ball-night this by younkers proudly styled ! 
The joy at distance bright burns brighter near — 
Now smiles the happiest hour of all their happy 

year! 

All day the earthen floors have felt their feet , 
Twinkling qitick measures to the hquid sound 
Of their own small-piped voices shrilly sweet. 
As hand in hand they wheel'd their giddy round. 
Ne'er fairy-revels on the greensward mound 
To dreaming bard a loveher show display 'd : 
Titania's self did ne'er with lighter bound 
Dance o'er the diamonds of the dewy glade. 
Than danced, at peep of morn, mine own dear 
mounlaia-maid. 

Oft in her own small mirror had the gleam. 
The soften'd gleam of her rich golden hair, 
That o'er her white neck floated in a stream, 
Kindled to smiles that Infant's visage fair. 
Half-conscious she that beauty glisten'd there! 
Oft had she glanced her restless eyes aside 
On silken sash so bright and debonnair^ 
Then to her mother flown with leaf-like glide, 
Who kiss'd her cherub-head with t.ears of silent 
pride. 

But all these glad rehearsals now are o'er. 
And young and old in many a glittering throng, 
By tinkling copse-wood, and hill-pathway pour^. 
Cheering the air with laughter and with song. 
Those first arrived think others tarrying long. 
And chide them smiling with a friendly jeer, 
" To let the music waste itself was wrong, 
So stirringly it strikes upon the ear, 
The lame might dance," they cry, "the aged. 
deaf might hear." 

And lo ! the crowded ball-room is alive 
With restless motion, and a humming noise, 
Like on a warm spring-morn a sunny hive, 
When round tljeir Queen the waking bees 

rejoice. 
Sweet blends with graver tones the silvery voice 
Of children rushing eager to their seats ; 
The master proud of his fair flock employs 



■372 



JOHN WILSON 



His guiding beck that due attention meets, — 
Ligt ! through the silent room each anxious bosom 
beats ! 

Most beautiful and touching is the scene ! 
More blissful far to me than Fancy's bower ! 
Arch'd are the walls with wreaths of holy green, 
Whose dark red-berries blush beside the flower 
That kindly comes to charm the wintry hour, 
The C hristmas rose ! the glory white as show ! 
The dusky roof seems brighten' d by the power 
Of bloom and verdure mingling thus below, 
Whence many a taper-light sends forth a cheer- 
ful glow. 

There sit together tranquilly arrayed 

The Friends and Parents of the infant-band ; 

A Mother nodding to her timid maid 

With cheering smiles — or beckoning with her 

hand, 
A sign of love the child doth understand. 
There, deeper thoughts the Father's heart employ. 
His features grave with fondness melting bland, 
He asks his silent heart, with gushing joy, 
If all the vale can match his own exulting Boy. 

See 1 where in blooming rows the children sit ! 
All loving partners by the idle floor 
As yet divided — save where boy doth flit, 
Lightly as small wave running 'long the shore, 
To whisper something, haply said before, 
Unto the soft cheek of his laughing May ! 
The whiles the master eyes the opening door. 
And, fearing longer than one smile to stay, 
Turns on his noiseless heel, and jocund wheels 
away. 

O Band of living Flowers ! taintless wreath ! 
By nature nourish' d 'mid her mountain air '. 

sweet unfolding buds, that blush and breathe 
Of innocence and love ! I scarce may dare 

To gaze upon you ! — What soft gleams of hair '. 
What peaceful foreheads ! and what heavenly 

eyes ! 
Bosoms so sweet will never harbour care ; 
Such spiritual breath was never made for sighs ! 
For you still breathe on Earth the gales of 

Paradise. 

But I will call you by your human name, — 
Children of Earth, of Frailty, and Distress I 
Alternate objects ye of praise and blame ! 
The spell is broken — do I love you less ? 
Ah ! no ! — a deep'ning, mournful tenderness 
Yearns at my heart, e'en now when I behold 
What trivial joys the human soul can bless ! 

1 feel a pathos that can ne'er be told 
Breathed from yon mortal locks of pure ethereal 

gold. 

Where now that angel face — that fairy frame— 
The joyful beauty of that burnish' d head 
That shining forth o'er all — a star-like flame — 
Once through this room admiring rapture shed ! 
Can that fair breast so full of life be dead ! 
All mute those ruddy lips, whose dewy balm 
As if through breathing flowers sweet music 
shed ! 



Those bounding limbs, chain'd now in eudless . 

calm — 
For her, last Sabbath-day, was sung the fivneral 

psalm I 

One reverend head I miss amid the throng — 
'Tis bow'd in sorrow o'er his cottage hearth ! 
The tread of dancing feet — the voice of song — 
The gladsome viol — and the laugh of mirth 
To him seem mockery on this lonesome earth. 
Rich in one child — he felt as if his store 
Of bliss might never yield to mortal dearth ; 
But dry the cup of joy that once ran o'er ! 
— Now that grey-headed man is poorest of the 
poor. 

That was a stirring sound — my heart feels hght 
Once more, and happy as a lamb at play. 
At music such as this pale thought takes flight ! 
It speaks of Scotland too, a dear strathspey ! 
No vulgar skill the Master doth display. 
The living bow leaps dancing' o'er the strings. 
The wrinkled face of Age is bright as day, 
While each glad child in fancied measure springs, 
And feels as if through air he skimm'd on flying 
wings. 

A hush of admiration chains the breath. 
And calms the laughing features of us all ; 
The room, erewhile so loud, is still as death — 
For lo ! the Infant-monarchs of the ball 
Rise from their seats, rejoicing at the call, 
And move soft-ghding to their proper place ! 
He in his triumph rising straight and tall ; 
She light of air, and delicate of face. 
More bright through fear's faint shade her wild 
unconscious grace. 

Towards each other their delighted eyes 
They smihng turn, and all at once may tell 
From their sulidued and sinless ecstacies 
That these fair children love each other well. 
They sport and play in the same native dell ; 
There, each lives happy in a shelter'd nest. 
And though the children of our vales excel 
In touching beauty — far above the rest 
Shine forth this starlike pair — the loveliest and 
the best. 

Like a faint shadow falls the pride of youth 

O'er faces sparkling yet with childhood's light — 

Joy, friendship, fondness, innocence, and truth. 

That blushing maiden to her Boy unite 

More than a brother dear ! Aye — this glad night 

Across their quiet souls will often move, 

A spot of vernal sunshine ever bright ! 

When through youth's fairy-land no more they 

rove, 
And feel that Grief oft sits beside her sistei 

Love. 

But lo ! their graceful salutations lend 
A mutual boldness to each beating heart ; 
Up strikes the tune — suspense is at an end- 
Like fearless forest-fawns away they start ! 
How wildly nature now corallines with art ! 
The motions of the infant mountaineer 
Wont o'er the streams and up the hills to dart, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



373 



Subdued by precept and by music here 
Enthral the admirmg soul at once through eye 
and ear ! 

Like sunbeams glancing o'er a meadow- field, 
From side to side the airy spirits swim. 
What keen and kindling rapture shines reveal' d 
Around their eyes, and moves in every limb ! 
See ! how they twine their flexile arms so slim. 
In graceful arches o'er their hanging hair, 
Whose ringlets for a while their eyes bedim. 
The music stops — they stand like statues there — 
Then parting ghde away on noiseless steps of air. 

And now a ready hand hath round them thrown 

A flowing garland, for their beauteous Queen 

Wreath' d by her playmates — roses newly blown 

White-clustering 'mid the ivy's vivid green. 

Enfolded thus in innocence, they lean 

Their silky heads in inclination dear. 

Their blent locks fluttering through the space 

between; 
And do they not, advancing thus, appear 
Like Angels sent by Spring to usher in the year ? 

Their movements every instant hghter grow, 

Motion to them more easy seems than rest: 

Their cheeks are tinged with a diviner glow — 

Their gleaming locks a perfect bliss attest. 

Now is the triumph of their art confest 

By rising murmurs, and soft-rustling feet 

All round th' admiring room — they cease — 

opprest 
With a pride-mingled shame — and to their seat 
Fly off, 'mid thundering praise, with bosoms flut- 
tering sweet. 

Around their Queen her loving playmates press. 
Proud of her dancing, as it were their own ; 
With voices trembling through their tenderness. 
Like to the flute's low tones when sweetly 

blown ! 
Envy to their pure breasts is yet unknown ; 
Too young and happy for a moment's guile ! 
There Innocence still sacred keeps her throne. 
Well-pleased, in that calm hold, to see the while 
Lingering on human lips an unpolluted smile. 

Ah me ! that Bards in many a lovely lay, 
Forgetting all their own delightful years. 
Should sing that life is but one little day. 
And this most blessed world the vale of tears! 
Even in such songs mysterious truth appears : 
We weep — forget — or muse resign' d on death — 
But oh ! that those inevitable years 
The soul should sully with bedimming breath. 
And prove how vain a dream is all our childhood's 
faith ! 

Go to thy mother's arms, thou blessed thing ! 
And in her yearning bosom hide thy head : 
Behold ! how bliss resembleth sorrowing ! 
When smiles are ghstening — why should tears be 

shed ! 
Nor, grey-hair'd man ! art thou dishonoured 
By those big drops that force at last their way 
Dova thy grave wrinkled face ! When thou art 

dead, 



That child thou knowest will weep upon thy 

clay — 
Thus fathers oft are sad when those they love are 

gay. 

But why should merriment thus feel alloy, 
Sanction'd by Nature though such sadness be ? 
— Look on yon Figure ! how he swells with joy ! 
With head-erecting pride and formal glee ! 
And may a Poet dare to picture thee. 
As stiff" thou walk' St thy pupils sly among ; 
While roguish elf doth ape thy pedantry? 
Loudly, I trow, would bark the critic throng, 
If vulgar name hke thine should slip into my song. 

And yet thou shalt not go without the meed 
Of well-earn'd praise — one tributary line : 
And haply as I tune my simple reed, 
Such theme the pastoral muse may not decline. 
Nor vain nor useless is a task like thine — 
That, ere the gleams of life's glad morning fly, 
Bids native grace with fresh attractions shine, 
Taming the wild — emboldening the shy — 
And still its end the same — the bliss of infancy ! 

Nor think the coldest spirit could withstand 
The genial influence breath' d, like balm from 

heaven. 
From rosy childhood, in a vernal band 
Dancing before him every happy Even. 
When through the gloom their gliding forms are- 
driven, 
Like soft stars hurrying through the airy mist, 
Unto his heart paternal dreams are given. 
And, in the bhss of innocent beauty blest. 
Oft hath that simple man their burnish' d ringlets 
kist. 

No idle, worthless, wandering man is he, 
But in this vale of honest parents bred : 
Train'd to a life of patient industry, 
He with the lark in summer leaves his bed 
Through the sweet calm by morning twihght 

shed, 
Walking to labour by that cheerful song ; 
And, making now pure pleasure of a trade, 
When Whiter comes with nights so dark and 

long 
'Tis his to train to grace the smihng infant throng. 

And he, I ween, is aye a welcome guest 
In every cottage-home on hill and vale ; 
And oft by matron grave is warmly prest 
To honour with his praise her home-brew'd ale. 
Smiles the grown maid her master to regale. 
Mindful of all his kindness when a child : 
Invited thus, the master may not fail 
To laud with fitting phrase the liquor mild, 
And prays that Heaven may bless the cottage on 
the wild. 

fair the mazy dance that breaks my dream ! 
Heaven dawns upon me as I starting wake I 
A flight of fancy this — a frolic whim — 
A mirthful tumult in which all partake. 
I So dance the sunny atoms o'er a lake ; 
I So small clouds blend together in the sky 
; So when the evening gales the grove forsak* 



374 



JOHN WILSON 



The radiant lime-leaves twinkle yet on high, 
So flutter new-fledged birds to their own melody. 

Through bright confusion order holds her reign, 
And not one infant there but well doth know 
By cunning rules her station to regain, 
And fearless of mistakes to come and go. 
Yet did the master no small pains bestow 
On these small Elves so docile, and so true 
To tune and figure. Nature will'd it so, 
Who framed to grace their stature as it grew, 
And train' d their fairy feet among the morning 
dew. 

True that, in polish'd life, refinement sheds 
A fragile elegance o'er chilhood's frame, — 
And in a trembling lustre steeps their heads, 
A finer charm, a grace without a name. 
There, culture kindly breathes on nature's flame ; 
And angel beauty owns her genial sway. 
But oh ! too oft doth dove-eyed Pity claim 
The unconscious victims dancing light and gay, 
For sickness lends that bloom, the symbol of 
decay. 

Here Health, descending from her mountain- 
throne, 
Surveys with rapture yon delighted train 
Of rosy Sprites, by day and night her own. 
Though mortal creatures, strangers yet to pain ! 
For she hath taught them up the hills to strain. 
Following the foot-prints o'er the dewy flowers 
Light as the shadows flitting o'er the plain. 
Soon as the earth salutes the dawning hours 
With song and fragrance pour'd from all her 
glitt'ring bowers. 

Nor deem to gilded roofs alone confined 
The magic charm of manners mild and free; 
Attendant mostly they on peace of mind. 
Best cherish'd by the breath of purity. 
Yea! oft in scenes hke this of rustic glee, 
Where youth, and joy, and innocence resort, 
The Manners gladly rule the revelry. 
Unseen, they mingle in the quickening sport. 
Well pleased 'mid village-hinds to hold their 
homely court. 

See! with what tenderness of mien, voice, eye, 
Yon little stripling, scarce twelve summers old. 
Detains his favourite partner gliding by. 
Becoming, as she smiles, more gaily bold ! 
'Tis thus the pleasures of our youth unfold 
The fairest feelings of the human heart ; 
Nor, o'er our heads when silvering years are 

roll'd, 
Will the fond image from the fancy part. 
But clings tenacious there 'mid passion, pride, 

and art. 

Aye ! nights like this are felt o'er many a vale ! 
Their sweet remembrance mocks the drifted 

snow 
That chokes the cottage up, — it bids the hail 
With cheerful pattering 'gainst the panes to 

blow. 
Hence, if the town-bred traveller chance to go 
Into the mountain-dweUings of our poor, 



The peasants greet with unembarrass'd brow 
The splendid stranger honouring thus their door, 
And lead his steps with grace along the rushy 
floor. 

But now the hghts are waxing dim and pale, 
And shed a fitful gleaming o'er the room ; 
'Mid the dim hollies one by one they fail, 
Another hour, and all is wrapt in gloom. 
And lo ! without, the cold bright stars illume 
The cloudless air, so beautiful and still. 
While proudly placed in her meridian dome 
Night's peerless Queen the realms of heaven doth 

fill 
With peace and joy, and smiles on each vast 

slumbering hill. 

The dance and music cease their blended glee. 
And many a wearied infant hangs her head. 
Dropping asleep upon her mother's knee, 
Worn out with joy, and longing for her bed. 
Yet some lament the bliss too quickly fled. 
And fain the dying revels would prolong — 
Loath that the parting "Farewells" should be 

said, 
They round the Master in a circle throng — 
Unmoved, alas ! he stands their useless prayers 

among. 

And now an old man asks him, ere they go. 

If willing he a parting tune to play — 

One of those Scottish tunes so sweet and slow ! 

And proud is he such wishes to obey. 

Then " Auld lang syne," the wild and mournful 

lay 
Ne'er breathed through human hearts unmoved 

by tears. 
Wails o'er the strings, and wailing dies away ! 
While tremblingly his mellow voice he rears, — 
Ah me ! the aged vs'eep to think of former years ! 

Now rising to depart, each Parent pays 
Some compliment well sttited to his ear — 
Couch'd, through their warmth of heart, in florid 

phrase. 
Yet, by a parent's honest hopes, sincere ! 
They trust to meet him all another year, 
If gracious heaven to them preserve the boon 
Of life and health — and now wuh tranquil cheer 
Their hearts still touch' d with that delightful tune, 
Homeward thev wend along beneath the silent 



O'er Loughrig-cliffs I see one party climb. 
Whose empty dwelhngs through the hush'd mid- 

riight 
Sleep in the shade of Langdale-pikes sublime — 
Up Dummail-Raise, unmindful of the height, 
His daughter in his arms, with footsteps light 
The father walks, afraid lest she should wake ! 
Through lonely Easdale past yon cot so white 
On Helm-crag side, their journey others take ; 
And some to those sweet homes that smile by 

Rydale Lake. 

He too, the Poet of this humble show. 
Silent walks homeward through the hour of 
rest — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



375 



While quiet as the depth of spotless snow, 

A pensive cahn contentment tills his breast ! 

O wayward man ! were he not truly blest! 

That Lake so still below — that Sky above ! 

Unto his heart a sinless Infant prest, 

Whose ringlets like the glittering dew-wire 

move, 
Floating and sinking soft amid the breath of 

love ! 



EDDERLINE'S DREAM. 

CANTO FIRST. 

Castle- Oban is lost in the darkness of night, 

For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, 

And the latest line of lowering light 

That Hnger'd on the stormy even, 

A dim-seen Hne, half cloud, half wave, 

Hath sunk into the weltering grave. 

Castle-Obanis dark without and within, 

And downwards to the fearful din. 

Where Ocean with his thunder-shocks 

Stuns the green foundation rocks, 

Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye 

Oft hath the eerie watchman sent 

A shuddering look, a shivering sigh, 

From the edge of the howling battlement ! 

Therein is a lonesome room, 

Undisturb'd as some old tomb 

That, built within a forest glen. 

Far from feet of living men. 

And shelter'd by its black pine-trees, 

From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas, 

Flings back its arched gateway tall, 

At times to some great funeral. 

Noiseless as a central cell 

In the bosom of a mountain, 

Where the fairy people dwell. 

By the cold and sunless fountain ! 

Breathless as a holy shrine 

When the voice of psalms is shed ! 

And there upon her stately bed, 

While her raven rocks recline 

O'er an arm more pure than snow, 

Motionless beneath her head, — 

And through her large fair eyehds shine 

Shadowy dreams that come and go. 

By too deep bliss disquieted, — 

There sleeps in love and beauty's glow. 

The high-born Lady Edderhne. 

Lo ! the lamp's wan fitful hght. 
Glide, gliding round the golden rim ! 
Restored to life, now glancing bright, 
Now just expiring, faint and dim ! 
Like a spirit loath to die, 
Contending with its destiny. 
All dark ! a momentary veil 
Is o'er the sleeper ! now a pale 
Uncertain beauty glimmers faint, '' 
And now the calm face of the saint, 
With every feature re-appears. 
Celestial in unconscious tears ! 



Another gleam I how sweet the while, 
Those pictured faces on the wall. 
Through the midnight silence smile ! 
Shades of fair ones, in the aisle 
Vaulted the castle cliffs below, 
To nothing moulder'd, one and all, 
Ages long ago ! 

From her pillow, as if driven 

By an unseen demon's hand 

Disturbing the repose of heaven, 

Hath fallen her head ! The long black hair, 

From the fillet's silken band 

In dishevell'd masses riven. 

Is streaming downwards to the floor. 

Is the last convulsion o'er? 

And will that length of glorious tresses, 

So laden with the soul's distresses. 

By those fair hands in morning light, 

Above those eyelids opening bright. 

Be braided nevermore ? 

No! the lady is not dead, 

Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed ; 

Like a wreck'd corse upon the shore, 

That lies until the morning brings 

Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowinga ; 

Or haply, to all eyes unknown, 

Is borne away without a groan, 

On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries 

Of birds that pierce the sunny skies 

With seaward dash, or in calm bands 

Parading o'er the silvery sands. 

Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells, 

Pausing to burnish crest or wing. 

No fading foot-mark see that tells 

Of that poor unremember'd thing! 

O dreadful is the world of dreams, 

When all that world a chaos seems 

Of thoughts so fix'd before ! 

When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! 

And friends cross o'er our soUtude, 

Now friends of ours no more I 

Or, dearer to our hearts than ever, 

Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour, 

Their pale and palsied hands, 

To clasp up phantoms, as we go 

Along the void like drifting snow, 

To far-oflr nameless lands ! 

Yet all the while we know not why, 

Nor where those dismal regions lie. 

Half hoping that a curse so deep 

And wild can only be in sleep. 

And that some overpowering scream 

Will break the fetters of the dream, 

And let us back to waking life, 

Fill'd though it be with care and strife ; 

Since there at least the wretch can know 

The meanings on the face of woe. 

Assured that no mock shower is shed 

Of tears upon the real dead, 

Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss. 

When bending o'er the death -like cheek 

Of one who scarcely seems alive, 

At every cold but breathing kiss, 

He hears a saving angel speak 

" Thy Love will yet revive !" 



376 



JOHN WILSON. 



Eager to speak — but in terror mute, 


With one light and careless touch. 


With chained breath and snow-soft foot, 


O'er the snow above her eyes 


The gentle maid whom that lady loves, 


Her long dishevell'd hair she tricks. 


Like a gleam of light through the darkness 


And with low sobs of gratitude 


moves, 


To Him who chased her dreams away, 


And leaning o'er her rosy breath, 


Down kneels she in the solitude. 


Listens in tears — for sleep — or death ! 


And with raised hands and eyes doth pray 


Then touches with a kiss her breast — 


Before the holy crucifix ! 


" Lady, this is ghastly rest ! 




Awake ! awake, for Jesus' sake!" 


" My soul hath been disquieted. 


Far in her soul a thousand sighs 


And welter'd with the weltering dead! 


Are madly struggling to get free ; 


Floating all night with a corse 


But that soul is like a frozen sea 


Over high blood-crested waves. 


That silent lies in ice and snow. 


Or driven by a fiendish force 


Though the deep waters boom below ! 


Down into unfathom'd caves : 


And yet a clear and silvery well, 


Blessed be God who rescued me 


By moonlight glimmering in its cell ; 


From that wild world of misery ! 


A river that doth gently sing 


Oh ! it is heaven to wake again, 


Around the cygnet's folded wing ; 


To know that I have wept in vain ! 


A billow on the summer deep 


That life yet warms that noble breast 


That flows, yet scarcely seems to flow, 


Which I in mortal pangs carest. 


Not calmer than that lady's sleep. 


Hurried along the foaming path. 


One blessed hour ago ! 


In face of horror, fear, and wrath ! 




Whether his ship in roaring motion 


So, gently as a shepherd Hfts 


Roll tempest-driven o'er the ocean, 


From a wreath of drifted snow. 


Or rocking lie in pleasant sleep. 


A lamb that vainly on a rock 


Anchor' d beneath the palmy steep, 


Up among the mountain clefts, 


Temper, God ! the sun and air 


Bleats unto the heedless flock 


To him, my home-bound Mariner; 


Sunwards feeding far below. — 


And gently breathe the midnight dew 


Even so gently Edith takes 


O'er him and all his gallant crew !" 


The sighing dreamer to her breast. 




Loving kisses soft and meek 


The lamp is dead, but the morning peejB 


Breathing o'er bosom, brow, and cheek. 


Faintly dawning far away. 


For their own fair, delightful sakes, 


Slowly, slowly wins its way 


And lays her lovely hmbs at rest ; 


Through the window buried deep 


When, stirring like the wondrous flower 


In its gloomy glen of stone — 


That blossoms at the midnight hour. 


A little point that shines afar. 


And only then — the Lady wakes ! 


Like a dim-discover'd star, 


From the heavy load set free 


When other lights in heaven are none. 


Of that fearful phantasy, 


To that little cheerful shine 


Edderline hfts up her head, 


Turn the eyes of Edderline ; 


And, in the fitful lustre lent 


And as a cloud that long hath laui 


By the lone lamp, gazing round. 


Black amid the sullen sky. 


As listening to some far-off sound. 


Suddenly dissolves in rain, 


Leans it on her lily hand, 


And stricken by the sunlight, shines 


In beautiful bewilderment ! 


With a thousand gorgeous lines, 


"Am I in some foreign land ? 


Blended and braided gloriously — 


And who art thou that takest thy stand 


So fair, so pure, so bright appears 


Like a minister of grace 


That kneeling Lady's face of tears. 


By the prisoner's haunted bed ? 


For the rain is fallen, the gloom is gone, 


Walking mute thy nightly round ! 


And her soul hath risen with the sun. 


Oh ! speak — thy voice was like a sound 




Elsewhere beloved ! That pitying face 


Hark ! the martlet twittering by 


Reminds me of the dead !" 


The crevice, with her twittering brood 




Beneath some shadowy wall-flower lie, 


Again she hears her Edith speak — 


In the high air of sohtude ! 


Doubt, fear, and trouble leave her cheek. 


She alone, sky-loving bird. 


And suddenly returning 


In that lofty clime is heard ; 


Remembrances all bright and fair. 


But loftier far fi-om cliflT remote. 


Above the darkness of despair. 


Up springs the eagle, like a thought. 


Like morning hghts are burning : 


And poised in heaven's resplendent zone, 


Even as a gloomy mountain lake 


Gazes a thousand fathom down. 


From its dark sleep at once doth break. 


While his wild and fitful cry 


And while afar the mists are driven. 


Blends together sea and sky. 


In new-born beauty laughs to heaven ! 


And a thousand songs, I trow. 


So rising slowly from her couch. 


From the waken' d world below. 


Like a nun in humblest guise, 


Are ringing through the morning glow. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



377 



Music is there on the shore, 
Softening sweet the billowy roar ; 
For bold and fair in every weather, 
The sea-mews shrill now flock together, 
Or wheehng off in lonely play. 
Carry their pastimes far away. 
To hltle isles and rocks of rest, 
Scatter'd o'er the ocean's breast. 
Where these glad creatures build their nest. 
Now hymns are heard at every fountain 
Where the land-birds trim their wings, 
And boldly booming up the mountain, 
Where the dewy heath-flower springs, 
Upon the freshening gales of morn 
Showers of headlong bees are borne, 
Till far and wide with harp and horn 
The balmy desert rings ! 

This the pensive Lady knows, 

So round her lovely frame she throws 

The cloud-Uke float of her array, 

And with a blessing and a prayer 

She fixeth in her raven hair 

The jewel that her lover gave. 

The night before he cross' d the wave 

To kingdoms far away ! 

Soft steps are winding down the stair, 

And now beneath the morning air 

Her breast breathes strongiand free ; 

The sun in his prime glorious hour 

Is up, and with a purple shower 

Hath bathed the billowy sea ! 

Lo ! morning's dewy hush divine 
Hath calm'd the eyes of Edderline ! 
Shaded by the glooms that fall 
From the old grey castle wall, 
'Or, from the glooms emerging bright, 
Cloud-Hke walking through the light, 
She sends the blessing of her smiles 
O'er dancing waves and steadfast isles, 
And, creature though she be of earth. 
Heaven feels the beauty of her mirth. 
How seraph-like the silent greeting. 
Streaming from her dark-blue eyes, 
At their earliest matin meeting 
Upwards to the dark-blue skies ! 
Quickly glancing, gliding slowly, 
Child of mirth or melancholy. 
As her midnight dream again. 
Of the hush'd or roaring main. 



Comes and goes across her brain. 

Now she sees the ship returning. 

Every mast with ensigns burning 

Star-bright o'er the cloud of sails. 

As, queen-like, down the green sea-vales 

She stoops, or o'er the mountains green 

Re-ascending like a queen ! 

Glad the heart of hoary ocean 

In the beauty of her motion ! 

Now through midnight's deepest noon, 

Howling to the wild monsoon. 

She sees God's anger flash around her^ 

And the glorious vessel founder 

To one vain signal-gun ! 

While in the lightning's ghastly glow 

The shipless ocean rolls below, 

As in the mid -day sun ! 

Far, far below, in rocky cell 
Doth a seer-hermit dwell. 
In solitude and in despair 
He sits, with long, black, rusty hair. 
Face dim as death, and his fix'd eye 
Red-flashing with futurity. 
A holy madman ! with no chain 
But those forged in his burning brain- 
Shuddering, close beside his feet. 
To see the frequent winding-sheet — 
Spite of the water's din, to hear 
Steps trampling gravewards with a bier— »^ 
Or hke a sweep of wintry weather. 
Wailing at midnight o'er the heather 
Cloud-coronachs that wildly rise 
When far away a chieftain dies. 

Down — downwards to his savage cave, 
By steps the goat doth almost fear 
To lead her little kids to browse 
On wild herb that there thinly grows 
'Mid spray-showers from the dashing ware- 
So dreadful 'tis the din to hear. 
The Lady with a quaking prayer 
Descends, as if upon the air. 
Like sea-mew with white rise and fall, 
Floating o'er a waterfall ! 
And now doth trembling Edith wait 
Reluctant at the closing gate. 
And wipes away her tears ; 
For the Lady motions her to stay. 
Then with a wan smile sinks away, 
And, ghost-like, disappears . 



BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR. 

(BARRY CORNWALL.) 



This writer is better known, both at home and 
in foreign countries, by the appellation of Bakry 
Cornwall, usually prefixed to his works for 
reasons known only to himself. No plausible ex- 
cuse has been given for his concealment of his 
real name. No biography of this poet has yet 
appeared, and little respecting his early life is 
known even by his friends. Bryan Waller Proctor 
was born in London, and is of a respectable family 
in the northern part of England. He received 
the first rudiments of his education at EaUng, a 
village near London, and was removed from 
thence to Harrow Grammar School, where he 
remained four years, and numbered among his 
school-fellows Lord Byron, Mr. Peel, the minis- 
ter for the home department, and several indivi- 
duals who subsequently became noted in the 
world. Dr. Drury was head-master of Harrow, 
at that time, and his encomiums have been sounded 
in high terms by more than one of his scholars. 
This Dr. Drury it was who became the means of 
the introduction of Kean the actor on the London 
stage, having seen him acting in Devonshire and 
conceived a high opinion of his talents. 

From the school at Harrow, Proctor was sent 
to the town of Calne, in Wiltshire, where he was 
placed with a solicitor to learn his business. The 
sohcitor's name was Atherston, a clever and ex- 
cellent man. With this master he remained four 
years, and then proceeded to London. 

At the time Proctor resided at Calne, several 
characters well known to the literary world dwelt 
in the neighbourhood ; among them were Crabbe, 
Moore, and Bowles. Dr. Priestley, the philoso- 
pher, once occupied a house opposite to that in 
which Mr. Atherston resided. Coleridge, after 
Mr. Atherston quitted it, dwelt in the house 
where Proctor had undergone his legal probation. 
This is not a Httle curious as a coincidence, for it 
does not appear that any of these celebrated men 
were natives of the town of Calne, the very aspect 
of which is as little poetical or literary or philoso- 
phic as it can well be. 

On leaving Calne and the drudgery of the 
initiatory part of his profession, the poet became 
the pupil of a conveyancer in one of the inns of 
court, it is generally reported of Lincoln' s-Inn. 
He had also determined to go to the bar, but cir- 
cumstances intervening to change his resolution, 
Proctor pursued his original profession of a con- 
veyancer. 

The " Dramatic Scenes," published under the 
assumed name of Barry Cornwall, first appeared 
in 1815, and about the end of the same year he 
published his " Sicilian Story." In the short in- 
terval which elapsed between these publications. 



Barry Cornwall became a great favourite with the 
pubhc. The subject of this tale is derived from 
the inexhaustible Decameron, and it is treated 
very happily ; but there is a sombre tone runs 
through all, which in this writer is not feigned or 
assumed, as it has been by others. Ill health is 
generally understood to be the cause of that 
species of melancholy which pervades most of his 
works, or perhaps a constitutional tendency that 
way. In 1820 appeared his " Marcian Colonna." 
This poem is not so felicitous in the plot as in the 
execution. It has excellencies of the highest 
order ; the descriptions of nature are noble, and 
the passion of love dehneated with a rich sense 
of feeling. " Mirandola" was his next pubhshed 
work; it came out in 1821, well sustaining the 
author's previous reputation. 

The models on which Barry Cornwall has 
founded his poetic style may be found among the 
older lyric and dramatic poets of England. Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, Webster, Decker, Marlow, 
and Massinger, among our writers on the drama, 
and Milton in the epic walk, he seems to have 
read with more than common care, and to have 
studied some portions of their work so closely as 
to have imitated them unconsciously, as may be 
observed in his printed works. In stature Proctor 
is below the middle height rather than above. 
His physiognomy is mild, and displays with that 
sedateness and melancholy cast which is observ- 
able in his poetry, the indications of kindness of 
heart and an amiable although somewhat of a 
feeble, rather than masculine character. He is 
married recently, and much of his time is neces- 
sarily occupied with the affairs of business. It is 
probably owing to this that his appearance before 
the public has been so rare of late. A page or 
two in the " New Monthly Magazine," or an oc- 
casional contribution to some of the literary an- 
nuals, are all in which, for several years, his pen 
is to be recognized by the public. 

The poetry of Barry Cornwall, as has been 
already intimated, is built entirely upon the dra- 
matists of the sixteenth century, and all he writes 
is deeply imbued with their spirit. There is little 
or none of their energy it is true, but there is 
much of their fine character, their pathos, their 
sadness, and their gentle passion. There is a 
propensity in Barry Cornwall to select subjects 
from among the morbid feelings of our nature, or 
from her erratic wanderings, rather than from her 
master-pieces in intellect and passion. Of the 
most perfect humanity he is shy ; and even pre- 
fers to revel, in one instance, amid the dreams of 
an insanity which is not the offspring of calamity, 
but inherent from his heroine's birth, born with 
(378) 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



379 



her and part of her being. Perhaps such a sub- 
ject is not the happiest for poetry; yet no one 
can deny, that in " Marcian Colonna" as much 
has been made of it, without shocking the feel- 
ings of the reader or violating propriety, as it was 
possible to make. There are passages in the 
works of Barry Cornwall which will bear com- 
parison with any others of our later poets, when 
read detached from their immediate connection, 
their antecedent or subsequent verses. In some 
of his works the poet falls into scenes of calm, 
contemplative, philosophical feeUng, which afford 
materials for thinking, as well as yield a fund of 
high amusement and deep interest. He seems to 
feel all he writes ; and so feeling every thing, he 
has an earnestness which is rarely to be found 
so sustained any where as in his unruffled and 
tranquil poetry. His variations are less than 
those of most contemporary writers : he pursues 
his course unbrokenly along, in gentle chaste 
beauty. 

In his stories or plots Barry Cornwall is not so 
fortunate as in the fiUing up of his details. In 
"Marcian Colonna" the ill-judged madness of 
the hero is ever before the eyes of the reader, and 
though so well painted, it strikes him as in bad 
taste. In the " Sicilian Story," the plot is Boc- 
caccio's: " Diego de Montilla" is not new. The 
filling in of his pictures, therefore, constitutes 
their merit, and the poet exhibits no falling off 
there ; he is, though an imitative rather than an 
original writer, more especially as respects his 
connection with the older English dramatists, un- 
equalled in his peculiar walk. Charles Lamb is a 



copyist of them to servility, but Barry Cornwah 
resuschates their spirit, and shows nothing of ser- 
vile imitation — he animates what he writes by their 
beauties, but he rejects their antique language 
and conceits ; in short, he only borrows their 
graces and the purity of their thoughts. In " Mi- 
randola," however, where this fondness for the 
earliest dramatists might be supposed to be more 
conspicuous from the character of the poetry, he 
does not seem to exhibit more of his predilection 
for them than in his preceding works, which have 
no relation to dramatic composition. 

It has been observed that the variety of the 
human countenance is so great, it is probable no 
two persons ever existed exactly like each other, 
if placed side by side. The same variety seems 
to hold good in respect to the variety of style and 
difference among writers. There are no two so 
much alike that a practised reader can be mis- 
taken, judging from their entire works. Barry 
Cornwall stands out as distinctly from his con- 
temporaries, and has his features of difference 
from them as clearly distinguished, as the poetry 
of Byron is to be distinguished from the prosaic 
rhymes or hexameters of Southey. His character 
as a poet is precisely that of the man, and there 
is no difficulty therefore, with his works before 
a stranger, for him to appreciate justly one by the 
other. Of all the living poets of England, not 
one has carried himself more blamelessly, or pur- 
sued his course through life's journey with more 
honour and credit to himself, with less assump- 
tion and more claim to honest praise than Barry 
Cornwall. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



THE TWO DREAMS. 



Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home ; 

She dreamt to-night she saw 

And these does she apply for warnings, portents, 
And evils imminent. 

Julius Casar, Act ii., Scene 2. 

And dreams in their developement have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past,— they speak 
Like sibyls of the future. 

Lord Bybon.— TAe Dream 



This scene is founded on a tale of Boccaccio. Ga- 
briello, a young gentleman of Brescia, was privately 
married to the daughter of a nobleman there. An- 
dreana (which was her name) excluded him one 
night from her society. On his remonstrance after- 
wards, she related to him a dream ; and he, at the 
moment of relating another, intending to show her 
the fallacy of dreams, fell dead. 



SCENE. 

A Garden. 

Gabriello, Andreana. 

gabriello. 
Come hither, Andreana ; you and I 
Have lived in Brescia here as lovers — nay 
Husband and wife, full three years now: 
more ! 



'Tis more. 



ANDREANA. 



GABRIELLO. 



You're right, sweet : 'tis so. In that time 
I never failed to see you at the hour 
We fix'd for meeting: if 'twere fine, 'twas well ; 
If cold, my love was warm : if stormy, I 
Wrapp'd my cloak round and smiled, for you 

were safe ; 
And when the piping winds of winter blew 
Sharp sleet against me and the blinding rain, 
And the loud quarrelling elements'cast out 
Their sheeted fires, 'twas something cheerful 

still 
To think of the after- welcome you would give me. 
But these are trifles. 



380 



BARRY CORN^WALL. 



ANDKEAXA. 

Not to me : I know 
How constant you have been, love : have I not 
Confess' d it often? 

GABRIELLO. 

Often. 



Well then, why 
Remind me thus — thus harshly (for you did) 
Of what I own so gratefully ? 

GABRIELLO. 

Andreana, 
Last night 'tis said (the only night when I 
Since our sweet marriage, have been barred from 
you) 

The young Count Strozzi visited your father: 

Was't not so ? 

ANDREANA. 

Yes. 

GABRIELLO. 

And why was I excluded ? 

ANDREANA. 

I had a silly trouble on me then : 

You'll laugh when I shall tell you of it (I hope. 

You will laugh ;) I have had — a dream ; sit 

closer. 
And press your palm 'gainst mine — that's well ; 

but you 
Have quite forgot your usual kiss. 



GABRIELLO. 



ANDREANA. 



You press my lip too hard. 



There. 



Oh! 



GABRIELLO. 

I'll try again. 

ANDREANA. 

Pshaw ! but laugh at me now, dear. I have had 
A horrid dream : methought we lay together 
Beside this splashing fountain : it was night, 
vA sultry night) and overhead the stars 
Went rolling 'round and 'round the moonless 

skies : 
The noise they uttered in their rushing course 
Was like a serpent's hiss. — Look there, Ga- 

briello, 
Orion's centre star moved then. 



You idle girl. 



GABRIELLO. 

Away, 

ANDREANA. 

Keep your eye fix'd. 

GABRIELLO. 



Go on. 



ANDREANA. 

Well, — I was lying then, as I am now, 
Within your arms. How sweet Love's pillow is ! 
I look'd at you and smiled : I spoke, but you 
Heaved a deep sigh and trembled. Still the stars 
Went 'round and 'round, their circles lessening 
At each revolve : At last one reached the point 
Right o'er your head, and sank — Another came 
And sank in darkness — then another died. 
Orb after orb came rolling in its round. 
As though impell'd within your influence, 
And vanish's hke the first. Saturn alone 
(Your natal star) blazed sullenly aloof: 
At last he stagger' d with a hideous noise, 
As though a globe were cracking, and his ring 
Shook, and look'd white about him, and a light 
Came streaming from his sphere. But why tell 

this? 
He died with the rest, at last : Then I^— > 



GABRIELLO. 



Awoke ? 



ANDREANA. 



No, no. Would that I had. 
Attentive too. 



Now listen, love : 



GABRIELLO. 

I rest upon your words : 
You tell a dream so prettily. 

ANDREANA. 

I thought 
That when the last star died, a thundering sound 
Was heard in the air, like groans and horrid 

laughs, 
And shrieks and syllables in an unknown tongue : 
And over us vast wings, that might have borne 
The lost archangel in his wanderings. 
Floated, and once they touched me (but you lay 
Beside me, so I felt no fear.) At last 
There rose a shadowy thing from out your body, 
And stood in silence by you. It was not 
Flesh, no nor vapour ; but it seem'd to be 
A dismal compound of the elements. 
Huddled by chance together ere the form 
Of man was fix'd and fashioned into beauty. 
Then, like a loathsome and unfinished thing, 
Flung aside for ever. 

GABRIELLO. 

So, what happen' d then? 

ANDREANA. 

Why then the thing hung over you. You scream'd ; 
And struggled painfully, but it laugh'd andflapp'd 
Its chilling wings, and breathed on you — Then 

you 
Lay still — 

GABRIELLO. 

Proceed. 

ANDREANA. 

And then the dark earth yawned, 
And there came out blue fires and sounds of tor- 
ture, 
Curses and shrieks — then solitary laughs. 
The creature seized you in its arms, and sprung 



i 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



381 



(I could not hold you then, dear Gabriello) 
With you into the gulf: and then I 'woke. 



G-ABKIELLO. 



And is this all ? 



ANBREANA. 

Is't not enough ? alas ! 

GABRIELLO. 

Shame, silly girl, look up and kiss me. So 
The ghost you see has never harmed my lip, 
And your's grow sweeter daily. 

ANDREANA. 

Oh ! you ilatterer : 
You do the same to others. You were called 
A gallant youth before I knew you. 



Ay, 
But not since, Andreana. I have lost 
My name for gallantry now, (a serious thing 
Alas, alas !) I have a mind to grieve 
As, you did 'bout the dream. 

ANDREANA. 

Ah ! why will you 
Bring that back to my memory ? Let us talk 
Of something else. 

GABRIELLO. 

Why then about my dream ; 
For I've dreamt too, and 'twas a terrible dream, 
Yet I am here to laugh at it. 

ANDREANA. 

When did it happen ? 



Last night. 



ANDREANA. 

Was't of yourself? 



GABRIELLO. 



Dearest. I dreamt- 



ril tell you soon, 



ANDREANA. 

Was't — was't about the stars? 



GABRIELLO. 

No, no, you coward, I— 



ANDREANA. 

Now, as I live 



Orion's lights are out. 

GABRIELLO. 

Your eyes grow dim. 
Look '. there they are, there. 

ANDREANA. 

Ah ! they're come again. 

GABRIELLO. 

Well, as you please.— I thought I had a fawn, 
White anti as spotless as the snow that lies 



On inaccessible hills. I thought I loved 
This fawn as I love you, sweet. 



ANDREANA. 



Ah ! so much ? 

GABRIELLO. 

Why haply not, but much, that's certain : So, 
To keep the pretty thing secure, I bought 
A collar of gold and lock'd it round its neck. 
Which fast'ning to me by a chain, I roamed 
For exercise in the forest. The silly deer 
Frolick'd and toss'd its antler'd head about. 
And lick'd my hand at times, and then 'twould 

browse 
On thyme and odorous herbs : at last, fatigued, 
I sate upon a hillock that arose 
'Neath a wild orange-tree, and plucked some 

flowers 
To make a coronet for my horned fool ; 
And flung a leaf or two at times upon it : 
These it would take in its mouth, but liking not 
The taste, cast them away, and then would run 
In sportive anger toward me. This did waste 
Some time. At last — - 

ANDREANA. 

What was the end ? 

GABRIELLO. 

You are 
Impatient, sweet. While I was busy with 
My garland, the chain shook, and there came 

forth 
A sob like sorrow from my pretty fawn. 
I look'd — its ears were pricked up, and its eyes 
(From which a tremulous light came) seem'd 

to start 
From the head : the slight limbs trembled, and 

the flanks 
Heaved up and down as though it had been 

chased; 
The fore legs were stretch' d out, the hindw bent 
Beneath its delicate body. 



Then- 



ANDREANA. 

Yes ; go on. 

GABRIELLO. 



A black greyhound bitch then started forth : 
Lean 'twas, and like a wolf. 

ANDREANA. 

But hlack ? 

GABRIELLO. 

Yes, black 
As winter nights are when the heavy clouds 
Do curtain up the stars. 



ANDREANA. 

I do not like 



The colour. 



Nor the dog, sweet, as you'll see ; 
The dog ran towards me. 



382 



BARRY CORNWALL 



ANDKEANA. 

Towards the fawn, you mean. 

GABEIELLO. 

Towards me, my Andreana: that was odd. 

ANDREANA. 

But all dreams are, you know. 

GABRIELLO. 

They are. I like 
To hear you talk thus : some half hour ago 
And you'd have conjured something terrible 
From this slight dream. 

ANDREANA. 

True, true, — but for the story. 

GABRIELLO. 

The dog ran towards me with outstretch'd jaws 
From which the white foam trickled ; its red 

tongue 
Was curl'd within its mouth, and every tooth 
Stood bare and grinning at me. Then I shook. 



ANDREANA. 



Afraid, my love ? 



Why, somewhat frighten' d, for 
I had no power to move. Then the beast sprung 
Against my heart. By heaven ! I felt a pain 
As though a dagger struck me, and it seized 
My side (my left side here,) and gnaw'd its way 
In a moment to my heart : the blood gush'd out, 
And once methought so freely that the dog 
Was blinded vsdth it, but he shook 't away 
Ajid came with fiercer appetite. At last, 
Now hearken, love. 

ANDREANA, 

I do, I do. 



What then? 



GABRIELLO. 



ANDREANA. 



GABRIELLO. 



At last, 



I— 



ANDREANA. 

Ha ! speak quickly ; then-" 

GABRIELLO. 

I 'woke. [Laughing, 

ANDREANA. 

Ha-ha-ha-ha: I'll punish you for this. 
And this is really all ? 

GABRIELLO. 

In truth it is : 
Is't not enough — will you have more ? 

ANDREANA. 

No, no. 



GABRIELLO. 

Now, Andreana, learn how Utile hath 
A dream to do with life, and yet life is 
Itself a dream perhaps ; with me it hath 
Been happy, for young Andreana's mine. 
Yet, not a dream ; for that were bad indeed 
Should all our hopes be frail, — evanishing 
With the coarse mould that pens the spirit up : 
Oh no, the spirit's immortal, sure. How fine 
And marvellous the subtle intellect is. 
Beauty's creator ! it adorns the body 
And lights it like a star. It shines for ever, 
And like a watch-tower to the infidel 
Shows there's a land to come. 

ANDREANA. 

How grave you are. 

GABRIELLO. 

Something oppresses me : I'll blow it away. 
There — now 'tis gone — oh ! 

ANDREANA. 

What's the matter, love f 

GABRIELLO. 

O Andreana ! Here, here, clasp your arms 
About me, love : my life's departing: quick — 
Closer — oh ! close : press harder, sweet : the 

blood 
Is running from my heart. 

ANDREANA. 

Gabriello ! 
Speak, speak : do not look so. Nay — 

GABRIELLO. 

My love — ah ! — 
[Dies. 

ANDREANA. 

So that's well: 

You're easier now ; do you feel faint ? Alas ! 

He swoons. I'll scoop some water from the 

fountain, 

And kiss him into life again. I never 
Saw him thus ill before : Gabriello ! 
Dear Gabriello ! Now this is pretence : 
I know it. — Ha ! — he's dead. [Falls„ 



LUDOVICO SFORZA. 



I'll cloee mine eyes, 
And in a melancholy thought I'll frame 
Her figure 'fore me. Now I have it— how strong 
Imagination works! how she can frame 
Things which are not ! methinks she stands afore me. 
Webster — The White Devil, Act iii 

Evad. Stay, sir, stay : 
You are too hot, and I have brought you physic 
To temper your high veins. 

Sing. Thou dost not mean this ; 'tis impossible : 
Thou art too sweet and gentle. 
Evad. No, I am not. 

Beaumont and Fletcher — The Maid's TVagedy, 

Act V. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



383 



This scene is founded partly on a fact in Italian his- 
tory. Ludovico Sforza was the uncle of the young 
Duke of Milan, and was present at his marriage 
with Isabella, grand-daughter of the king of Na- 
ples. Sforza was much struck with the beauty of 
Isabella ; and it was supposed that he caused his 
nephew, Galeazzo, to be poisoned. The last scene, 
which occurs after the lapse of a year, is imaginary. 



SCENE I. 

A Street. 
Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza. 

DUKE. 

And this proud lady — was she chaste as fair ? 



Pure as the flame that burnt on Dian's altar, 
And lovely as the morning. — Oh ! she stood 
Like one of those bright shapes of fabling Greece 
(Born of the elements,) which as they tell, 
Woo'd mortals to their arms. A form more 

beautiful, 
Houri or child of the air, ne'er glanced upon 
A poet's dream, nor in Arabian story 
Gave promise to that vaunted paradise : 
Not they who from the stars look watchfully 
Upon the deeds of men, and oft 'tis said 
Dart like a vapour from their wheeling orbs 
In streaming splendour hither, to redress 
Or guide, were lovelier. Her voice was sweet 
And full of music, and did bear a charm 
Like numbers floating from the breathed flute, 
Caught afar off", — and which the idle winds 
Of June, through wantonness, at eve do fling 
O'er banks and beds of flowers. 

DUKE. 

What ! have you done, my lord? 



Extravagant boy, 
Art not content ? Well, I could say for ever. 
Her step? 'twas light as Dian's when she tripp'd 
Amidst her frolic nymphs, laughing, or when 
Just risen from the bath she fled in sport 
'Round oaks and sparkling fountains, 
Chased by the wanton Oreades : Her brow 
Pale as Athenian marble, but around it 
Grew fillets hke the raven's wing ; her mouth 
(Jove would have kissed 't) did keep as prisoners 
Within its perfumed gates white pearls, more 

rich 
Than Cleopatra got from AntotJy : 
Her eyes, and one might look on them at times. 
In lustre did outvie that Egyptian queen. 
When on the Cydnus' banks in pride she stuck 
Rare gems, each one a province, in her hair, 
And bade the Roman worship her. 



Is dead ? 



And she 
[Isabella appears at a window. 



SFOKZA. 

Dead, dead. No — what is this ? 



Fair vision ! 



DUKE. 

Uncle, look upon her, — there. 



What, can the grave give up its habitant ? 
Or have the sheeted dead a power at will 
To visit us, to claim their wonted guise ; 
And from that eager reveller the worm 
Regain their fleshy substance — his fair spoil ? 
It is herself: and can the mouldering eye 
Resume its lustre, and when death has drawn 
His filmy veil around it, sweep 't away ? 



My Lord I 



I've heard, and some believe 't, that when 
The soul doth quit its prison here, 'tis check' d 
At times, and is ordain'd to sink again 
And give life, feeling, to some ruder shape ; 
But that's in punishment for such dark spirits 
As have ill fiU'd their part : 'Twas not for thee 
Struck in thy prime with scarce one acted sin 
Upon thee. — Ha I — She's vanish'd. 

[Isabella leaves the window. 



'Tis Isabella. 



No more. 

DUKE. 

I thought you'd seen her picture, sir 

SFORZA. 

I have, I have ; no, no, I wander, — never. 
This is the very mockery of the dead. 
And this is your bride, Galeazzo ? 



Yes. 



She's very fair. You knew her face before, 
But ne'er confess'd it ? 

DUKE, 

I was fearful lest 
I should have many rivals. 



The door opens. 



SFOKZA. 

'Tis enough: 



Enter Isabella, attended ; Piero de Medici, 
and others. 



My sweetest Isabella ! you have rested 

After your journey, well ? Fatigue seems loath 



384 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



To harm you ; and your eyes are spared, I see, 
For many a Milan conquest. 



There's but one 



My duty bids me look to. 



DUKE. 

And your heart ? 



And— and my heart. 



D0EE. 

Indeed. 



[They talk. 



My lord, my lord ! 

SFORZA. 

Ha ! my De Medici ! welcome. 

DE MEDICI. 

Thanks, dear Sforza ; 
I thought you'd not have mark'd me. Is your 

mood 
Always so very contemplative ? 



SFORZA. 

O no! 
But my nephew has 



'Tis the fair princess 
Forgot me. 



DUKE, 

My dear uncle, pardon, pardon. 
TMs is my guardian, dearest Isabel : 
My father, I should say : I pray you love him. 

S?ORZA. 

Ludovico Sforza, lady, and your knight ; 
If you will own so poor a one. 

ISABELLA. 

Thanks, sur. 



He is a dangerous man, my princess, for 
I saw him gazing on you 



How! 



Ab though he'd found 
A star, and was under the influence of 
The planets. 

SFORZA. 

Pr'ythee ^but the princess has 

Not seen the Alps by day-light. Turn your eyes 
Here, madam. Look! methinks their snowy 

crowns 
Shine radiantly as they had seen the sun. 

DUKE. 

The very hills give welcome to my love, 



And every thing seems happy now, but most 
The heart of Milan. 



Oh! take care, my lord; 
You'll spoil me else, I fear. 



This day looks hke 
The holiday of Nature, madam, and you 
The queen oft. 



Pray — no more. 

DUKE. 

No more then. Now — 
Now for our marriage : blush not, for by this blue 
And bending canopy, there's nought so fair 
As thee, my own sweet bride ; and none so 

happy 
As now the Duke of Milan. Come. 



I'll follow. [Exeunt, 
— She's gone — and it is night. What ! shall I in 
My age be follying ? and this puny boy 
To cheat his tutor. — It may please him now 
To reign in Milan: no, no, that's my care. 
Oh ! what an eye she has : It is not likely 
She will live quiet here : Her look forbids it. 

She will be Duke : And I Now had I been 

The same Ludovico Sforza who did win 
(Some twenty years ago) the prize at Florence, 
Perhaps she might have loved me : Out on't, I 
Grow foolish in my age. My love — that I 
Might conquer, or my ambition. Oh ! but here 
Both spur me on : whither, no matter — none. 
I'm borne upon the wings of fate to do 
Some serious act, or thus it seems, and will 
Not quarrel with my destiny. I'll think on't. 

[Exit 



SCENE II. 
A Room, with a Banquet. 

Isabella {sola.) 

Time lags, and slights his duty. I remember 
The days when he would fly. How sweet they 

were 
Then I rebuked his speed, and now — and now 
I drench his wing with tears. How heavily 
The minutes pass ! Can he avoid me ? Oh ! 
I almost wish — and yet that must not be. 
Hark, hark ! I hear a step come sounding 

through 
The hall. It is the murderer, Sforza. Now, 
Rise up my heart in thy own strength, and do 
The act of justice bravely. So. 

Enter Sforza. 



My love ! 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



385 



O my delight, my deity ! I am come 

To thank you for being gracious. I am late ? 

ISABELLA. 

Oh ! no : you are in time, my lord. 



You look 
But sad, my Isabella : let me hope 
No ill has happen'd : nothing, sweet, to sway 
Your promise from me ? 

ISABELLA. 

Be assured of that. 
My soul — I mean that — Ah ! you're grave : Well, 

you 
Have cause to chide me, but my spirits have 
Been faint to-night at times. I'll do my best 
To entertain you as you merit. 



Better, I hope, my Isabel. 



Far 



Your grace 
May challenge any thing : Report has been 
So lavish in its favours tow'rd you that 
All hearts must fain be yours. Even I, you see. 
Although a widow, not divested of 
Her sorrows quite, am here i' the midst of tears, 
To smile, like April, on you : but you'll grow 
To vanity, sir, unless some stop be put 
To your amorous conquests. I must do't. 



You shall, 



You shall, my Isabella. 



Sir, I will. 
You shall be wholly mine — till death. I have 
As yet been Ml of miseries : they have swell' d 
My heart to bursting. You shall soothe me. 



How? 

ISABELLA. 

We'll find a way nay, not so free, my lord ; 

I must be won with words (though hollow,) 

smiles. 
And vows (although you mean them not,) kind 

looks 
And excellent flattery. Come, my lord, what 

say you ? 
I'm all impatience. 



Oh ! what can I say ? 
Thou art so lovely to me that my words 
Must sound like cheats to many. They of whom 
The poets told, men say, were shadows, dreams. 
So they will swear of thee. 



I have no patronage. 



ISABELLA. 

Alas ! my lord. 



49 



SFORZA. 

But / will have 
Your name recorded in the sweetest verse. 
And sculptors shall do honour to themselves 
And their dehcious art by fashioning thee ; 
And painters shall devise for us a story. 
Where thou and I, love, shall be seen reclining, 
Thou on my arm — 

ISABELLA. 

A happy thought. 

SFORZA. 

And in 
The guise of the throned Juno — I as Jove 
In his diviner moments, languishing 
Beneath thy look. 

ISABELLA. 

She was a shrew, my lord, 
(That queen o' the heavens,) and I— 

SFORZA. 

Then thou shalt be 
Like her who in old inimitable tales 
Was pictured gathering flowers in Sicily, 
And raised to Dis's throne : methinks she was 
A beautiful prophecy of thee ; and there 
Mountains shall rise and grassy valleys he 
Asleep i' the sun, and blue Sicilian streams 
Shall wander, and green woods (their leaves just 

touched 
With light) shall bend 'fore some faint western 

wind 
And bow to bright Apollo as he comes 
Smiling from out the east. What more ? Oh! 

you 
Shall kneel and pluck the flow'rs, and look aside 
As hearkening, and — /will be there (a god,) 
Rushing tow'rds thee, my sweet Proserpina. 



An ugly story. 

SFORZA. 

How, sweet? 

ISABELLA. 

You would take me 
To — Hell then. Pardon me, my lord ; I am 
Not well. Come, you must honour me, and taste 
Of my poor entertainment. 

SFORZA. 

Willingly. 

ISABELLA. 

We'll be alone. 

SFORZA. 

'Tis better. I have now [Tkey feast. 

No appetite for common viands, yet 
I'll drink to thee, my queen. 



This is 
A curious wine, my lord, and like those drops 
Sought by philosophers (the life elixir,) 
Will make you immortal. 



386 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



SFORZA. 

Give it me, my love. 
May you ne'er know an hour of sorrow. 



Stay, stay — soft, put it down. 



Ha! 



Why, how is this ! 



ISABELLA. 

Would — would you drink without me ? 
Shame upon you ! 

Look at this fruit : a sea- worn captain who 
Had sail'd all 'round the world brought it for me 
From the Indian islands : and the natives there 
Do worship it. This. 

SFOKZA. 

'T has a luscious taste. 
My nephew, when he lived, was fond of a fruit 
That's not unlike it. 

ISABELLA, 

Thanks, ye spirits of vengeance ! 
[Aside. 
Now you shall taste the immortal wine my lord, 
And drink a health to Cupid. 



Cupid, then. 
He was a cunning god : he dimm'd men's eyes, 
'Tis prettily said i' the fable. But my eyes 
(Yet how I love !) are clear as though I were 
A stoic. Ah ! 

ISABELLA. 

Ha ! what's the matter, sir ? 

SFORZA. 

The wine is cold. 

ISABELLA. 

You'll find it warmer, shortly. 
It is its nature, as I'm told, to heat 
The heart. My lord, I read but yesterday 
Of an old man, a Grecian poet, who 
Devoted all his life to wine and died 
O' the grape: methinks 'twas just. 

SFORZA. 

'Twasso. This wine — 



And stories have been told of men whose lives 
Were infamous, and so their end : I mean 
That the red murderer has been murder'd, and 
The traitor struck with treason : He, who let 
The orphan perish, came himself to want : 
Thus justice and great God have order'd it ! 
So that the scene of evil has been turn'd 
Against the actor in it ; black thoughts arisen. 
And foil'd the schemes of fierce imaginers, 
Ajidr— poison given for poison. 



O my heart ! 



ISABELLA. 

Is the wine still so cold, sir ? 

SFORZA. 

Oh ! I burn. 
Some water — I burn with thirst — Oh! what is 
this? 

ISABELLA. 

You're pale: I'll call for help. Here ! 
Servants enter. < 

ISABELLA. 

Bind that man 
To his seat. 

SFORZA. 

Traitress ! 

ISABELLA. 

Now begone.— ^My lord ! 
{Servants exeunt. 
I'll not deceive you : you have drank a draught 
Will send you from this world. 



My heart, my heart ! 
Traitress ! I faint, faint — ah ! — 



I would have done 
My act of justice mildly on you, but 
It could not be. I felt that you must die 
For my sake, for my boy, and Milan. You 
Murdered my lord husband. Stare not : 'tis 
A melancholy truth. You have usurp'd 
The first place in the dukedom, and swept all 
My child's rights to the dust. What say you, 

sir? 
Do you impeach my story? While you've 

time, 
Give answer to me. [He dies. 

You are silent. Then 
You are condemn' d for ever. I could grieve 
Almost to see you with that marble look. 
Alas ! that neck which bore the ducal chain, 
That head the coronet, both bending once 
Tow'rd shouting slaves, are fixed now. His eye 
Is motionless. How like those forms he looks, 
That sit in stony whiteness over tombs, 
Memorials of their cold inhabitants. 
Speak ! are ye grown to stone ? What can you 

say 

In your defence, sir ? Turn your eyes from me t 
Villain : how dare you look at me ? You shall 
Be amorous no more. — Away : Must I 
Rouse you? How idly his arms hang! Turn 

your eyes 

Away. I dare not touch him — yet I must. 
Ha! he is dead — dead. So, by me: Sweet 

heaven ! 

Forgive me, I'm a widow broken-hearted; 
A mother too : 'twas for my child I did it. 
I was not in my nature cruel, but 
Yon bloody man did press so hardly on us ; 
He would have torn my pretty bird from me : 
I had but one — what could I do ? There was 
No other way : And this is blood for blood. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



387 



LYSANDER AND lONE. 



Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair?— 

Oh! if you have 

Hid them in some flowery cave, 

Teil me but where. 

Mjlton— Comjw. 
But she 

Did not disdain to give his love contenting ; 
Cruel the soul that feeds on souls tormenting : 
Nor did she scorn him, though not nobly born, 
LOVE IS NOBILITY. 

Spenser— J?rttoin's Ida. 



This sketch is altogether imaginary, and is an endea- 
vour to communicate to a pastoral, something of the 
familiarity of a common dialogue. 



SCENE. 

A Wood. 

Lysandek, Ione. 

lysanber. 



Now sit. 



Where ? 



LYSANDER. 



On this broken stump, here ; see, 
The embroiderer, moss, hath wrought you a 
golden seat. 



How ! on the moss ! 



Aye : for when nature dresses, 
It fills its part well, therefore honour it : 
There seems a kindly feeling in it, as though 
A spirit of goodness peep'd from out the earth 
To shield decay. 

IONE. 

So — there : now kneel and worship. 

LYSANDER. 

I will : but first look at your bower ; behind 
Are hazel boughs : lean on them, sweet, they will 
Clasp you like love : and what a canopy is 
This scented hme ! kings have not such above 

'em. 
And hst ! how midst its shivering leaves the wind 
Makes amorous noises ('tis Favonius, hark ! 
Murmuring amongst the blossoms ;) then below 
There is a carpet for your delicate feet, 
Wove in Vertumnus's loom. 



'Tis a sweet place. 



LYSANDER. 



Aye, Iris has been here, beloved ; she 

lethe Spring's almoner you know, and scatters 



Upon the subject world, dyed flow'rs and sweets 
With prodigal hand. Is it not strange that some, 
Ungrateful, shun her favours ? but we've felt them, 
And never more than now. 



How know you that t 

LYSANDER. 

Oh ! well : your eye betrays it. We wdll meet 
To-morrow early, and I'll show you all 
The secrets of the forest. Every dell 
And shady nook and cave o'ergrown by leaves 
We'll visit, and perhaps we may surprise 
A wood-nymph sleeping. 

lONE. 

This to me? 



Why, yes ; 
For then I'll show to you what charms Jean 
Gaze at unheeding. 

lONE. 

No, no. 

LYSANDER. 

Yes, you will : 
And I will be your guard, my beauty ; aye. 
And as we ramble through the wood I'll teach 
How you may shun the briery paths and pass 
The thorn untouched, and you shall see me take 
The monster thistle by the beard (lest it 
Should harm you ;) and we'll hearken to the song 
Of the shrill mounting lark : list ! our own bird 
The nightingale petitions you : her voice 
Was ever resistless : now you'll come ? 



No. 



Yes. 



Be not too sure, Lysander. Foolish boy ! 
To give your heart to me, to me who am 
A spirit of the element. 

LYSANDER. 

You are 
A goddess to my gaze, and you shall be 
Queen of the elements. 



Nay, but I am 
One of old Nereus' daughters, youth, and live 
Within the seas (albeit at times I stray 
Amongst your woods and fountains.) My green 

home 
Is where the mariner's plummet never sounded, 
Beneath the fathomless deep. The dolphins there 
Sport not, nor dares the huge leviathan 
Lash with its sinewy arms the waters, which 
Form temples and towers and pillars and crystal 

shrines, 
And sparry caverns where the sea-maids hide, 
And homes for all the ocean deities. 



388 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



It is a sacred place, and beautiful ; 

Such as you see in dreams, when hope is fresh 

And sleep both charms and cherishes. 



LTSANDEK. 



This is the gayest tale. 



Pretty maid ! 



Believe it, Lysander. 
But come ; as you have loved me long, have you 
Not framed a song for me ? Have you not sung 
O' nights by sparkling streams, and vow'd my 

face 
Was clear as Dian's ? 

LYSANDER. 

Often, often. 



Indeed ! 
What did you call me ? Ah ! shame on you : Wfell, 
Call me — lone. 

LYSANDER. 

Sweet lone ! Fair 
And beautiful lone ! oh but cold 
As your blue element when the wintry moon 
Hovers above 't ; lone — what a name, 
And it is yours ? 



Ay, youth, and you must sing 
One of your forest songs to it. 

LYSANDER. 

Then hsten : 
And lay your white arm 'midst the branches — 

thus: 
(Sweet contrast!) and your head against this 

trunk. 
And clear your marble forehead from those thick 
And shadowy tresses. So, your eye bent tow'rds 

me; 
How bright it is ! and hke the glow-worm's light 
Shines most methinks in darkness. Listen now ; 
But 'tis a melancholy song : 'twas framed 
When once I thought I had lost you. 

Now, by Night ! 
I swear I love thee, delicate Tone ! 
And when I lie upon my pillow, still 
My soul is sick with love. My brain 
Teems with strange fantasies. Ay, though I sleep, 
Thou, Hke a spirit from the stars, 
Standest before me. I have seen thee come 
In pale and shadowy beauty, 
And, floating between me and the cloudless 

moon. 
Stretch forth thy white arms that, like silver 

vapours, 
Scarce dull'd the planet's brightness. 
And thou didst smile, and breathe upon my 

heart. 
As if to heal the scars of sorrow there. 
'Twas Hke Arabian sweets, but cold as death. 
I lovsd thee, fair lone ! 
Not as a lover, nor as parent, friend. 
Brother, or child. It was a dreamy feeling. 
Sacred to me and strange — unearthly, born 



Of some unutterable fancy, that 

Like an intense beam o' the meridian sun, 

Shot on my brain. 

I thought thou wast my better angel, doom'd 

To guide me through this solitary hfe 

To some far-off immortal place 

Where spirits of good assemble, to keep watch 

Till the foundations of the earth shall fail. 

I loved thee as became mortahty 

Glancing at heaven ; 

And earthly feelings never mingled with 

Or marr'd my love celestial. 

But thou art gone 

And now I choose to wander when the winds 

Chase the dark clouds away at dead midnight, 

For then methinks I see thee. 

I love to lie by waterfalls, 

And mark the sheeted silver roll away, 

Rich as Dorado's paradise ; 

Or hsten to its distant music 

When through the piny forest I do take 

My solitary way : 

And then at times I commune with thee, 

And thou, lone ! dost thou not (oh ! say it,) 

Bequeath soft messages for me 

Unto the dark boughs of the shaking pines ? 



Enough, enough. This is the strangest fancy. 
And so you love me ? Pshaw ! 

LYSANDER. 

By all the gods ! 

lONE. 

I'll not believe it : what ! you — quite a boy ? 
'Twill be a pretty tale. 

LYSANDER. 

But who shall tell it ? 

lONE. 

Why I, and all who hear us ; for we are 
Encompass' d by the sylvan deities : 
And not a foolish word, youth, hast thou spoke, 
But Echo in her hundred caves has caught 
The sound, and told it to the wood-nymphs, 

whence 
In shape of whispers from the oaken boughs, 
Hazels or beeches, that hke traitors shake 
At every noise, the words are carried on 
To the great Pan. 

LYSANDER. 

And he — well, \yhat of him ? 

lONE. 

Oh ! he loves all the nymphs that haunt the woods, 
And when he finds they wander from their 
homes — 

LYSANDER. 

Fear him not, sweet lone ; I am here, 
And will protect you ever. 

roNE. 

Gentle boy. 
Thanks, but no more of that : you love me then t 



LYSANDER. 



Ay, Uke the stars. 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



389 



lONE. 

Not as a lover.' 

LYSANDER. 



Oh! 

I love you like the world — myself : alas ! 
I know not what, but that I love you. 



So. 
You play your part well : who has taught you 
this? 



My heart, my heart. 



Nay pr'ythee ; this 
Is folly surely : young Lysander, how — 
How shall I credit you ? some maids have given 
(High born as I am : pale CEnone did) 
Their hearts to mortals, but the men they graced 
Forgot the favours quickly. 

LYSANDER. 

Shall I swear ? 

lONE. 

If your heart prompt you. 

LYSANDER. 

Then by thundering Jove, 
And all his minist'ring spirits tend 
Obedient round his chair, that fixed stands 
On grey Olympus. By 



What have you done 
To merit love ? I am not wont to give 
My heart unmerited. Triton's sons have striven 
To gain me to their arms, and Faunus oft 
Hath woo'd me, youth, ere now. 



I do believe it. 
'Tis certain: Oh! they must have done't, and I 
Have left my quiet home o' nights, to sing 
Your name beside the chafing sea, and hearken 
If in the tumult of the waters you 
Whisper'd in answer. I have come here at noon, 
On dusky evenings, and on darkest nights, 
To seek you. I have let my fleeced sheep 
Wander unguarded o'er the mountains. I 
Have left my father (yet I love him) to 
Weep o'er my nightly absence— quitted all 
Our village feasts and calm domestic meetings. 
To resort here and call on you. Tone. 



Indeed, my love ? 



LYSANDER. 



Again, again, lone. 
Say it again, for my sake. 



Then — my love. 



LYSANDER. 

Oh ! my divine lone, what can I 
Do to deserve your love ? 

lONE. 

Be constant. 



Ay, 

As bright Apollo to the summer air. 
As larks are to the morn, or bats to eve, 
Or as the nightingale — when the maiden May 
Dies on the breast of June. Oh ! fear it not. 



I will not, dear Lysander. I have mark'd 
Your growing qualities many a long, long year, 
And think you worthy of a sea maid's love, 
And — ay, stand thus, for thus the Trojan stood, 
Abash'd on Ida, when the heavenly queens 
Claim'd the immortal fruit, decreed at last 
To beauty. You and I — why how you smile — 
Will haunt these woods together : you shall pass 
The sultry hours amongst the hills, and tend 
Your father's flock ; I in my ocean cave 
Must linger out the day, but ever at night 
I'll come here, dear Lysander, and when fate 
Shall lift you to the stars, to those dark waves 
That stream below the upper billows, I 
Will take my journey, till Jove calls me up 
To live with voufor ever. Now, farewell. 



JtAN. 



Like a village nurse 

Stand I now cursing and considering, when 
The tamest fool would do — I will be sudden, 
And she shall know and feel, love in extremes 
Abused, knows no degree of hate. 

Massinger— Z)jtie of Milan, 

I come, Death ! I obey thee, 
Yet I will not die raging : for alas ! 
My whole life was a frenzy.— 
Bury me with Marcelia; 

And let out epitaph be 

T%e same. 



There is a story somewhat similar to this sketch told 
in (I believe) Oil Bias. 



SCENE. 

The Gardens belonging to a Spanish Castle. 

Juan and a Boy. 



The night grows foul : and the thick air doth stir 
A beating at my heart, like passion : Hark ! 
How the winds draw the curtains of the night, 
Like ministers to lust. Queen Dian now 
Is with her paramour. 



390 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



BOY. 

You spoke ? 



'Tis well, 
They'll rock her into slumber : yet she'd fain 
Be watchful, for she loves to lie upon 
The green hill's top, and kiss one pouting lip. 
No more, no more : what ! are there panders in 
The sky, as here ? and — how the sultry air 
Weighs on my forehead. Break a lemon branch 
And give't me, Lopez : there is a freshness in it. 
And very grateful perfume. So, how sweet ! 
I'll bind it round my brows. What time is it 
now? 



JUAN. 

Where's your lady, fool ? 



Near midnight. 

JUAN. 

Wants it long ? 

BOY 

No, sir ; about 
Some quarter of an hour or so. 

JUAN. 

That's much: I'll hear 
A song ; 'twill drive some blacker thoughts away. 



BOY. 



What sort of song ? 



Let it be full of love, 
But not a jot of kindness : burning passion, 
No more — yes, headlong folly — flames that parch 
And wither up the heart : fierce jealousy, 
And horrid rage, and — ay, then you may tell 
How she you loved was false, and that you grew 
Mad, and a murderer : any thing. 



But this 



Will not become a song. 



Then say how she 
Was beautiful as Sin, and that her eyes 
Shone Hke the morning ; that her arms were 

smooth, 
And gracefully turn'd, and that her figure seem'd 
Shaped from the mould of Dian's. If you can, 
You then may tell how her white bosom rose 
And sunk voluptuously to the music of 
Her beating, passionate heart. — But, out on this. 
I'll have no music now ; my soul's untuned, 
And I've no relish for it, yet I could 
Bear well some frightful discord, and might laugh 
Haply if heaven's bright rolling stars were driven 
Spell-struck from out their paths, and rush'd 

against 
Each other grating, till this vile earth shook 
At its foundations. Boy, when went my wife 

hence ? 



Sir! 



At pravers, I think. 



Excellent, excellent ! the times are good 
(Must be) when strumpets pray. My bosom now 
Swells like the boiling ocean. How could she 
Be false to me ? I, who did love her as 
My soul — better, alas ! Oh ! how I gazed 
Upon her brow, and thought it fairer than 
The face of the starry heavens, and that her eyes 
Outmatch' d those floating lights — but what has 

this 
To do with my fierce task? Begone, and send 
Your mistress hither. 

BOY. 

She's at prayers, sir. 



Ha! 

Forgot: no matter, there's time : now leave me, 
And place the lamp upon the dial yonder, 
And draw the shade around the flame — Go, go. 

{Boy goes out. 
Now then I am alone. There's not a sound 
To startle or to cheer me. It is dark 
As though the grave imprison' d me. This night 
Shall be my colleague in a desperate act ; 
And the blue visiting lightnings, and the winds, 
And muttering thunder shall give help ; the one 
Light if I wish 't, and one shall blow about 
To the four quarters of the skies my deed 
Of justice, and the last shall celebrate 
With its immortal noises all I do 
(My bloody victory over love.) A step '. 
She comes then : not alone : ah ! not alone — 
Now for my hiding-place. [He retires, 

Olympia and Bianca enter. 



Did I believe in fables, I should think 

Some evil hung about me : the black night 

Has not allowed one small star to escape. 

To light us on our path : who's there ? I thought 

A figure pass'd us. Hark I 



I heard nothing. 



Nor I : and yet when diemons walk about 
Their steps 'tis said are noiseless. I could now 
Think half my nursery stories true, and spurn 
My better reason from me. 



Let us talk 
or something else, dear lady. 

OLYMPIA. 

Tremble not. 
You have no cause to fear ; your life has been 
Harmless (I hope so,) and the spirits of ill 
May never injure goodness. Ha ! the worm, 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



391 



That owes her lustre to the darkness has 

Lit her green lamp ; and, look ! the fountain 

which 
We've yet but heard now shoots its silver rain 
Up visibly. How fresh and sweet it is '. 
Bianca, get you homewards ; I will sit 
Beside the margin of the water and 
Enjoy the air awhile. [Bianca exit. 

What a most delicate air this garden hath ! 
There's scarce a flower or odorous shrub that 

grows 
In Spain we have not : there, I scent the rose ; 
Now the perfuming limes : and as the wind 
Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out 
The orange-trees. Their fragrance charms me 
Almost to sleep. [Eedines. 

Juan enters. 



She sleeps at last, then : yet I will not kill 
The frail thing sleeping. Why did I delay ? 
I feared (ah ! was that guilt ? — no, no) to face 
The eye of her whom justice bade me smite. 
— Oh ! what a beautiful piece of sin is there : 
They fabled well who said that woman won 
Man to perdition : hark ! the thunder mutters 
In anger as it seems ; then 'twas not fable. 
Be silent for a time ye ministers 
Of death or darkness (for your voicing doth 
Bespeak ye terrible agents :) I am come 
To save ye a worthless task. Now then, my soul I 
Rise up, Olympia : she sleeps soundly. Ho ! 
Stirring at last: rise — Fair Olympia, you 
Have much to do to-night. The fates have writ 
Your doom upon their brazen book, and I 
Stand here to do their bidding. 



What is this ? 



Now by — ^but I am quiet: you have sinn'd 
Most foully 'gainst your husband: that's not 

much; 
But you have done a deed at which the skies 
Blacken: look up. 

OLYMPIA. 

Dear Juan ? 



You have made 
Me (I forgive that) base : our noble house. 
Till now illustrious, you have stain'd. Hark, 

hark! 
The engines of the heavens are now at work ; 
The voices that you hear amongst the clouds, 
(But understand not) say — " Confess." I wait 
To hear your guilt : speak. 

OLYMPIA. 

Oh ! your mind is fiU'd 
With terrors. Let us home, dear Juan, now : 
We'll talk to-morrow of it. 



Away, away: 
Now by the wasting passion that doth stir 



Vengeance within me — Olympia! this night 
You'll take your leave o' the earth : the fates have 

said it, 
And who may turn the fates I Yet ere you die 
I'll tell you how I loved you — doated— oh ! 
Grew guilty for you — guilty ! do you hear f 

OLYMPIA. 

Most perfect, and my mind sinks. 



Ere you married 

I loved you ; that you know : your father shook 
A poor petitioner away ; and you. 
Although you own'd to love, forsook me. Then 
I tried my fortune in the wars : you gave 
Your hand to old Ramirez. 



I was bid. 



My uncle's death raised me to wealth, and then 
I came home quickly : you were married. 

OLYMPIA. 

Well! 

JUAN. 

Well. 

Why then despair possess'd me. Madness 

stamp' d 
His iron on my brain, and two years passed 
(You still Ramirez' wife) when I became 
A man again. The impudent dotard griim'd 
His lavish fondness publicly upon you. 
On me — curses on him ! 



Su-, no more. 

JUAN. 

Oh ! you still love him ! 

OLYMPIA . 

Not so ; but hia name 
A madman shall not mouth. 

JUAN. 

Now shall you die: 
Ay, die— by me who love you. I who have 
Rioted upon that bosom vnll at least 
Take care that none beside shall sleep there. I 
Was mad — and am : but why do you upbraid me ? 
Was't not for you I grew so ? Blighting shame 
Weigh on your tongue for that ! 



Don Juan, yoiK 
Have sported with a gracious name. 



A name ! 
I slew him, harlot ! stabb'd him through and 

through. 
Fool ! to believe that common villains struck 
Him dead and robb'd him not. 



I dream. 



392 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



'Twas I. 
Now laugh : yet if thou dost it will be at 
My misery likely : I deserve not that. 
'Twas all for you, for you, and now you have 
Call'd back the love I bought at such a price, 
And sold it to another. 

OLYMPIA. 

' Sir, 'tis false : 

You are all false. Oh ! how I abhor you now ! 
Hearken, Don Juan ; I have loved you (how 
You will remember quickly ;) 'twas an error ; 
For had I known his blood was spilt by you, 
I would have cast you off, as now I do, 
For ever ; ay, for ever. 

JUAN. 

Speak again. 

OLYMPIA 

For ever. 

JUAN. 

Will — ^vidll your paramour come then ? Ha ! you 

see 
I know it all — all. 

OLYMPIA. 

Sir! 



You love him ? 



JUAN. 

Do you deny 



OLTSIPIA. 

Dearly. 

JUAN. 

Curses light on him 
And thou, thou— perish. 



[Stabs her. 



OLYMPIA. 

Stay, ah ! Juan, stay. 
It cannot be : you've done ill. 



Not hurt much ? Speak ! 



You — you are 



That youth— 



OLYMPIA. 

Oh ! save yourself, dear Juan. 

JUAN. 

Yes, yes. 

OLYMPIA. 

He is my brother. 

JUAN. 

Hell! 

OLYMPIA. 

The Inquisition are now watching for him. 
Save him. 

JUAN. 

I will. 



OLYMPIA. 

By— -ah — 



[Dies, 



By my lost soul. 
Look up, look up, Olympia! Juan's here ; 
Thy husband — murderer, that's the name. My 

love ! 
My love, Olympia ! I — she's dead. — 

How's this ? 
So, where am I ? Olympia — she is false : 
Dead ? Ah, some villain has been busy here. 
By heav'n the golden hair I used to twine 
About my finger's bloody, and her eye 
Has lost its beautiful meaning. Life and love 
Were struck and fled together — to the grave. 
Oh ! I have cut those sweet blue veins asunder. 
And filled her breast with blood : there's not a- 

touch 
Of colour in her lip (so red once,) and her hand 
Lies nerveless like a common lump of flesh. 
What a voice she had 1 'tis silent i could it die 
In a single groan ? — impossible. 



( Voices are heard.) 



My lord ! 



JUAN. 

Hark, hark ! they call the murderer ; but I'll cheat 
Justice for once. 

( Voices.) 
My lord, my lord ! 



I'll drag 
The body — body.' hence. So, now lie there. 

[Hides the body. 
And yet I will not fly : why should I ? I 
Have lost what was my Hfe on earth : what was — 
A horrid sound. They come — {Enter Servants.) 

Whom seek ye ? She — • 
Your lady's gone — gone, do you doubt me !— 
gone. 



My lord ! a stranger has arrived, who says 
He is her brother. 

JUAN. 

Who ? She has none— none. 

SERVANT. 

My lord, he's at the castle. 



Silence. If 
He be imperishable, then indeed 
He may be kin to her. But she is gone, 
On a dark journey — Oh ! 

SERVANT. 

You've cut your hand. 
My lord! and terribly. 

JUAN. 

I have cut — ^my heart. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



393 



Begone— all but Diego. [Servants go out. 

Poor old man, 
You were my father's servant ; nay his father's : 
We prized you, and you served us faithfully ; 
But now's your service ended. Old Diego ! 
Long before sun-rise, I shall be— 



My lord ! 



Quiet, Diego. No foul passions then, 
No turbulent love, nor fierce idolatry. 
Nor bitter hate, nor jealousy, shall mar 
My soUtary rest : I shall be — dead. 
Yet heark'n awhile to my last words, and do 
My bidding as a friend. I am the last 
("lis a pity) of a princely house ; therefore 
Let not my name be slander' d. 



My dear lord ! 



It was not always thus : once (but that's now 
Many sad years ago,) one old man thought 
I should do honour to his name : that's past — 
For look ! my star is setting. And am I then 
The last of a time-honour'd line— a stem 
That traced its root into the bed of kings. 
And shamed it not ? and none remain save me ! 
Ah ! where is now my father's prophecy. 
And where my own hopes ? wither' d, wither' d. 



Alas! 



A few more words, and then — good night. 

I smote — I smote — now let the black skies fall 

And crush me in a moment ! Oh! my queen. 

My own incomparable wife ! — My love ! 

Oh ! all my life has been an error: So, 

I'll shift a troublesome burden from my back, 

And lay me down to sleep. 



My lord. 



Let us go home, 



I will, I will. That potent draught 
Which fill'd the frames of men with youth, were 

now 
To me a faithless medicine: I have quaff' d 
Life from the lips of beauty, and shall I 
Who've banqueted like a god be now content 
With meagre fare, or trust to mortal drugs. 
And run a common idler through the world, 
With not a heart to own me ? 

DIEGO. 

Noble sir ! 
Let me for once forget my service. Rouse 
Your nature, my dear lord. 



No more, no more. 
No lord: a vulgar slave am I, who caught 
50 



One brief look from the sun. The guiding light 
Is out that glanced on me, and here I stand 
Lost, and in terrible darkness near my tomb ; 
And hovering shadows and fierce shapes that 

come 
On no good errand beckon me. I smote— 
The story hangs upon my tongue. Diego ! 
I smote the noblest woman in the land. 
And with my cruel dagger cut a way 
To — (I was shrined there too, but knew it not) 
Her heart. Ay weep, Diego : thou mayst weep j 
But for myself, my eye stands fix'd and burning : 
The socket's dry as dust. Your hand, old friend, 
For all are equal in the grave ; you used 
To carry me when a boy ; do it once more ; 
And when I lie stiff on my marble bed 
Let no one scoff or curse me. Bless you ! — Now 
Open your arms, Olympia ! [Stabs' himself. 



LOVE CURED BY KINDNESS 



Mreth. 'Tis a pretty sad-talking boy, is it not ? 
Bellario, thou canst sing and play ? 

BeZZ. If grief will give me leave. 

Jlreth. Alas! whatkindof grief can thy years know t 
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them. 

Beaumont and Fletcher— PAi7a«ter. 

It were all one, 
That I should love a bright particular star. 
And think to wed it, he is so above me. 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 

Mi's Well that Ends Well. 



This sketch is founded partly upon a tale of Boccaccio. 



SCENE. 



A Banquet Room. 
Don Pedro, King of Sicily elect, and Courtiers. 

DON PEDRO. 

Let every cup be filled : we'll have a health 
To beauty. For myself, I'll name a queen. 
Here — ^but Salarno drinks not — 



FIRST COURTIER. 



Look! 



Yes, my lord, 



DON PEDRO. 

True. ' ' The queen of Naples." Let the health 
Go round. 

OMNES. 

" The queen of Naples." 

FIRST COURTIER. 

She indeed 
Is lovely : gracious Sir, you have a taste 
We may not quarrel with. 



394 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



DON PEDRO. 

I hope not, sir : 
Indeed you cannot quarrel with a health 
To woman, though she be not wholly free 
From fault. Sirs ! in my land (romantic Spain) 
The sweet sex is upheld, yet every face 
Is praised to none's discredit. 'Tis not fair, 
Nor gentle that the charms of one should fix 
A censure on the next. 

FIKST COURTIER. 

By no means. 



DON PEDRO. 



Then 



Let's not say this lady has a mouth 
Like Cupid's bow, lest one, with other charms, 
Own not a mouth so sweet. Let no one swear 
Black eyes are matchless, 'cause the maid he 

loves 
Has a dark glance perhaps, for her next friend 
May look as sweetly from her deep blue hghts 
As she of different colouring : — but where 
Is our young friend Ippolito ! — call him, sir. 
Meantime, Lord .Tulio, we will drink a health 
Of yours. Your beauty, sir? 

SECOND COURTIER. 

" The fair Lisana." 

OMNES. 

"Lisana." 

DON PEDRO. 

" Fair Lisana." Who is she ? 

SECOND COURTIER. 

But a poor maiden ; yet the gentles here 
Swear she is a Venus, and — I know not what. 
An artist's daughter, as I think. 



FIRST COURTIER. 

And beautiful indeed. He comes. 
Ippolito enters. 

IPPOLITO. 



She is, 



My lorfi— 



DON PEDRO. 

We look'd for you before. Come hither — near : 
How is't that you were absent, sir? 



My lord, 



I could not come. 



DON PEDRO. 

How was't ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Oh ! sir, you are 
A friend to beauty, so you will not press 
Your question farther. 

DON PEDRO. 

You are right ; fill high. 



A health now to the fair Ippohta, 
For that shall be her name. 



If you will give 
A health (would you could do't!) to the sweet 

maid 
I have just seen, be her name known : it is 
Lisana. Sweet Lisana ! 



To her already. 



DON PEDRO. 

We have drunk 



IPPOLITO. 



Be it done again, 
For she is matchless, sir, through all your land 
Of Sicily, though now she pines away. 
She Uves, but scarcely above the grave— and 

loves. 
Though her love is half despondency. 

DON PEDRO. 

Indeed ! 
And does the gentleman know it ? 

IPPOLHO. 

No : she bore 
Her sickness quietly ; at last— I'd fain 
Move you to pity, noble sir. 



DON PEDRO. 



' Tis done i 



Think me her friend already. 



Shall I tell you 
In verse (for that's my habit) how she looks? 
You shall then know her story. 

DON PEDRO. 

Have a care, 
'Tis not the way to the heart ; and passion yet 
Ne'er dealt in rhymes — or seldom. Well ' your 
song. 



Gently upon her pillow now 
The love -sick girl is lying ; 
And but that at times about her brow 
A throbbing pulse starts up (as though 
The spirit of the heart were flying 
From point to point, in eager close 
With Death,) you haply might not know 
She lived ; yet in the evening 
A soft bloom steals across her cheek 
Like the delicate fruit-tree's blossoming. 
Or the hue for which we (curious) seek 
Within the breast of the young white rose. 

—Oh ! if love save her not she dies — 
This pretty languid girl, who lies 
Gently as if a lily there 
Should spread its white leaves to the air, 
To catch once more the summer sun. 
She loves and pines and wastes away, 
And may — die ere the night be done. 
Oh! is there in our Sicilia 



DRAMATIC SCENES 



A heart so cold that never stirs 

Responsive to the beat of hers? 

She loves a nobleman — a youth 

Royal — (mark that) brave — yet, in sooth, 

He may have pass'd her by and never 

Seen th^ soft beauty we admire 

Or, if his look was on her bent 

At feast or jousting tournament, 

Haply his lofty glance of fire 

Bade the pale girl be dumb for ever. 

DON PEDRO. 

He was not of my mind then. 



Sir? 



DON PEDRO. 



This youth o' the terrible look— 

IPPOLITO. 



He is not so, sir. 



DON PEDRO, 



Who is't ? you say he's royal. If a smile 

Will do the girl's heart good, or some kind words. 

By my faith she shall not want it. 



Shall she not ? 
I take you at your word : bend forward, sir, 
And listen; this great man is — but you'll not 
Feel angry ? 

DON PEDRO. 

Pr'ythee speak. 



Why then he is 
Don Pedro — Prince of Arragon — lately 
Made King of Sicily. 

DON PEDRO. 

Ippolito ! 
Is all this true ? or do you think my heart 
Will thank you if the tale be idle ? 



'Tis true as my fidelity. 



Sir, 



DON PEDRO. 



Break up 
The party now ; or rather, Julio, you 
Do honour to my table ; I must hence 
For a few hours ; and see you play the host 
As if your prince were present. 

SECOND COURTIER. 

Sir, I will. 



DON PEDRO. 



Come then. 



IPPOLITO. 

Yet— yet a word, my lord. I think 

I've heard you say you loved a princess of 

The house of Austria ? 



DON PEDRO. 

Ay, most heartily. 

IPPOLITO. 

Then 

You will not ruin this pretty girl, my lord? 
She is bUnd now (for she loves you,) and your 

heart 
la too — too good to hurt her ; haply too 
There may be some one loves her, dearly as 
You love that noble lady. 

DON PEDRO. 

What means this ? 

IPPOLITO. 

My lord, I wish her — happy ; yes — ^no more- 
Happy ray lord. 

DON PEDRO. 

Come hither ; you have used 
Me ill whom you have called your friend, young 

man: 
You have forborne to trust me. Have you loved 
This maiden long ? 

IPPOLITO. 

My lord ! 

DON PEDRO. 

I wait your answer. 

IPPOLITO. 



I— 



DON PEDRO. 

Have you loved this fair girl long ? 



Oh!aU 



My Ufe, my lord. 



DON PEDRO. 



That's a long courtship truly. 
But come, show me the way ; and as we go 
You shall tell me your love story ; when we're 

there 
You'll say a lord of the court has come to see 
The young Lisana — ay, deputed by 
The King, or whatsoe'er you will. I must 
Perforce speak kindly, but, good youth, you shall 
Not suffer for this girlish fancy. I 
Will be your pleader too. 



My lord, my lord ! 
My whole heart thanks you. 



DON PEDRO. 



Now let's go. 



SCENE II. 
A Bed-chamher. 

Lisana, her Mother. 

LISANA. 

What is this lord's name, mother, who you say 



396 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Has come to see me ? It is odd, and yet 


LISANA. 


One would not but — but see him, for the king 


My lord, 
My gracious lord ! I am too weak to kneel 


You know (that is more strange) hath sent him 

hither 
To visit me. Do you hear that, dear mother ? 


And thank you as I ought. 


To visit your pale girl— The king — 


DON PEDRO. 


MOTHEK. 


How's this ? 


I know it. 


LISANA. 




Oh ! Sir, 


LIS AN A. 


Think you I do not know you ? yes, and know 


Is it not very gracious ? 


Whence comes this noble favour ; you have seen 


MOTHER. 


My brother (not my brother, yet he is 


Yes, 'tis kind. 


As kind) the young Ippolito. 




DON PEDRO. 


LISANA. 


, 




He is now 


Ay, very, very kind : you do not feel 


Without. Good lady, will you trust me with 


How good the king is. What have / done — I 


Your daughter for a while ? 


Without a merit ? 






MOTHER. 


MOTHER. 


Surely, my lord. 


Pshaw ! the king perhaps 




Hath heard of your beauty, child. 


LISANA. 




IppoUto is without : dear mother, go and ask 


LISANA. 


If his low spirits haunt him still. [Mother exit. 


mother ! 






DON PEDRO. 


MOTHER. 


You must 


Ay: 


Be his physician, sweet Lisana, or 


Why not ? I'm sure the verses that the men 


I err. Lisana ! I have heard (how true 


Have writ may well have reached the court. 


It is I know not) that you— nay, nay, blush not. 


LISANA. 


LISANA. 


Away! 


My lord! I'm pain'd — confounded. 


MOTHER. 


DON PEDRO. 


Perhaps Ippolito — 


Silly girl ! 


LISANA. 


LISANA. 


What, what? 


That's true, I've no excuse : yet 'twas not well 




Ippohto should do this. 


MOTHER. 




I said— 


DON PEDRO. 




You have cause 


LISANA. 


To love him. As to me — 


I heard it mother — well. Oh ! now I see 




How the king learnt my folly. I can never 


LISANA. 


Look this his friend in the face. It was not 


I know it, sir ; 


kind — 


I'm very foolish. 


It was not friendly of Ippolito : what he, 


DON PEDRO. 


Who grew up with me like a brother, to 


I shall smile, Lisana ! 


Betray my secret : shame upon him ! 






LISANA. 


MOTHER. 




You 


Oh! do not jeer me. 


Must now look cheerful, dear. We'll show the 


DON PEDRO. 


court 
All beauty is not there. 


Jeer you ? How ? 




LISANA. 


Don Pedro enters. 






I am 


LISANA. 


But a poor girl, my lord : and yet too bold — 


Hp comes : hush— Ah ! the kmg. 


I knew it at the time (that makes my fault 




The heavier) all the wide and fearful space 


MOTHER. 


That lies 'tween me and royalty. You were 


Lisana ! — Sir, 


A prince (long may you live so) — I no more 


My poor girl often faints ; your lordship will 


Than a poor peasant girl of Sicily. 


Not heed it. Lisana ! — look up, dear ; the king 


At times I wonder how my heart could lift 


Hath sent a gentleman from court. 


Its thoughts so high, but love heeds rank so little ! 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



397 



DON PEDRO. 

I thank you for your love. 

LISANA. 

My lord ! 

DON PEDRO. 

Sweet girl, 
My heart is thankful for your kmdness ; I 
Must be your knight too, fair Lisana, and 
Should any vent'rous champion dare assail 
Your colours (which I'll wear) — Let them be 

white 
Like your own maiden purity, and yet 
I'll have a blush of the rose too, just to show 
Your heart was warm as chaste. [Smiling. 



My gracious prince ! 



DON PEDRO, 



Lisana — 



My dear lord (once let me call 
My prince by that sweet title,) you have done 
An act shall make you honoured, nay beloved 
— I feel already well. Sir, should you choose. 
As you needs must, a bride from some high house, 
To grace your throne and lend a beauty to 
Your private hfe, you may without fear say 
A young Sicilian girl still loves you, but 
With such a grateful, humble feehng, that 
'TwUl never jar with hers. 

DON PEDRO. 

If I should marry. 
My wife shall learn to cherish you, sweet girl, 
(Ne'er fear it,) and she shall be grateful too 
For your unmerited love. 



Oh f say not so ; 
Not — not unmerited, and yet I'll not 
Say all I might (that were not delicate) 
Of what this land doth echo of its lord ; 
You hear it from many mouths. 

DON PEDRO. 

From none so sweet 



As thine, Lisana. 



LISANA. 

Ah '. you'll learn me soon 



To flatter: but forgive me— I'm too free. 

DON PEDRO. 

Go OB, go on ; I'll check you with a kiss 
When you err widely, but it shall be a kiss 
Your brother might have given ; but we must now 
Speak on a better subject. Listen to me : 
This melancholy boy, Lisana, who it seems 
Pines since his mother's death — He's very kind? 



Oh '. that he is, and yet at times he starts 
Away, and talks but strangely to me, and 
Some'^^omewhat bitterly of late. 



DON PEDRO. 

That is 
One of love's foibles, my good girl. It is 
A cunning effort of the mind, when it tries 
To dissipate a profound feeling by 
Words of an opposite colour : and 'tis done 
In hopes to make the heart beloved show 
Itself unworthy. But I have a task, 
Lisana. Listen ; IppoUto loves — you. 



My lord ! 



DON PEDRO. 



But while his heart was beating high 

He heard you loved another. Then what did he ? 

He told his prince the story of your love 

(Your beafdtiful, delicate love, dear girl,) and thus 

Did sacrifice himself 

LISANA. 

Alas, alas ! 



DON PEDRO. 



Oh ! but he merits something ; 
I'd thank him with my heart ! 



were I you, 



LISANA. 

My lord — my heart! 

DON PEDRO. 

It is the only gift, save some that I 
Shall force on him hereafter, he can wish. 
Mark me, Lisana, this young man may die 
Unless you love and save him. Speak ! you look 
In doubt ; 'twill be a noble act, and I 
Shall love ye both, and serve. Speak out, 
Lisana ! 

LISANA {after a pause.) 
My lord, it shall be done. 

DON PEDRO. 

And yet (I'd fain 
Not speak of this) be sure your heart will feel 
No chill when press'd 'gainst his ; it should be 

all 
His own, purely and wholly, save what I 
Shall claim for friendship. 



Sir you teach me well, 
And I am grateful for it. The passion that 
Did sway me tow'rd your highness Uves, but 

yet 
Refined so by your gracious kindness, thait 
'Twill be distinct from what Ippohto asks. 
I'll love him as my husband, sir, and you 
As my most noble friend. 



IppoUto, I say. 



DON PEDRO. 

Enough. Come in ! 
Ippolito enters. 



IPPOLITO. 

My lord ! 



398 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



DON PEDKO. 

Come forward. 
I will not say a word. Lisana now 
Must tell you all you wish. 

LISANA. 

Come hither then, 
My dear Ippolito. Be happy, if 
My heart can make you so. 

DON PEDRO, 

Oh ! a sweet girl ! 
i will be crowned upon your wedding day. 



THE WAY TO CONQUER. 



Hamlet. I have heard 
That guilty creatures sitting at a play 
Have, by the very cunning of the scene, 
Been struck so to the soul, that presently 
They have proclaimed their malefactions. 

Samlet. 

Lev. He gave him first his breeding : 
Then shower'd his bounties on him like the Hours, 
That, open-handed, sit upon the clouds. 
And press the liberality of heaven 
Down to the laps of thankful men. 

Ben Johnson— JWsw Inn 



Let it be 
To-day, now you are here. Cesario, 
I wish'd to ask you of a youth who lives with 
The good old judge Colonna. Has he not 
A foreign youth about him ? 



Yes ; his name 
Is Pedro — no, Diego, born at Madrid : 
He is well versed in languages, and comes, 
Of a right noble family : of the house 
Of— of Medina, as I think. 



Astovy, distantly resembling this sketch, is told of one 
of the Dukes of Guise. 



SCENE. 
A Boom in a Palace. 
Prince. Cesario. 

CESARIO. 

Your highness sent for me ? 

PRINCE. 

I did. Sit down, 
My dear Cesario. You look ill. 

CESARIO. 

No, sir. 

PRINCE. 

' ou have been feasting lately : come — I know it, 
You were at Count Vitelli's, banquetting, 
And he keeps such late hours. Have a care ; 
Your health may suffer for it. 

I 

CESARIO. 

You wish'd to speak 
In haste with me, my lord ? 

PRINCE. 

Not so. 



Indeed ! 



You know him well then? 



No, sir : I take shame 
On me the while I say it. 

PRINCE. 

Should you think 
This young man honest ? 

CESARIO. 

Honest ! ay, or else 
He much deceives me. 

PRINCE. 

Then he'd not betray 
Your uncle, as I hear he has done ? 



Sir !— He— 
He could not be so base : my uncle was 
His first and excellent iriend. 



I thought the world 
Was not so bad : now hsten, Cesario, 
And you shall hear a curious history. 
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think 
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man 
Came mask'd unto a rich lord's house, (her* in 
Palermo) — Do you hear how Etna mutters? 
I fear there'll be irruptions shortly. 



Yes, 
It sends a terrible sound indeed, my lord. 



This man petition' d for his life. He said 
That he had sworn to act a horrid deed, 
And came to make disclosure. The great lord 
(His was the life in danger) promised fiill 
Forgiveness — ^but you do not listen. 



May visit you to-morrow ? 



Then I 



Oh! 



Pardon me, sir, most carefully. 



He said 
A youth on whom the lord had lavish'd wealth. 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



399 



And kindness and good precept, had forgot 
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears 
To those divinest whispers which the soul 
Breathes to prevent our erring. He resolved 
To kill his benefactor : that was bad. 



Oh ! he deserved- 



We'll talk of that hereafter. 
Well — this bad man, whose mind was spotted 

with 
The foulest sin i' the world, ingratitude, 
Had sworn to murder this his friend. 



My lord ! 

PRINCE. 

I see it shocks you : yes, for the sake of gold 
He would have slain his old and faithful friend ; 
Have spurn' d the few grey locks that time had 

left. 
And stopp'd the current of his reverend blood. 
Which c<yuld not flow much longer. 



Are you sure ? 



The plan was this : they were to bind him, for 
To slay him here were dangerous, and transport 
His wretched limbs to some most lonely place. 



Where- 



CESiKIO. 

-where was this ? 



I'll tell you, for I once 
Was housed there through a storm. A castle 

stands 
(Almost a ruin now) on the sea-coast. 
Where it looks tow'rd Calabria ; as 'tis said, 
A murder once was done there, and e'er since 
It has been desolate ; 'tis bleak, and stands 
High on a rock, whose base was cavern' d out 
By the wild seas ages ago. The winds 
Moan and make music through its halls, and 

there 
The mountain- loving eagle builds his home. 
But all's a waste : for miles and miles around 
There's not a cot. 



And saw the bright fires stream along, when 

they 
Crumbled the chesnut forests and dark pines, 
And branching oaks, to dust. The thunder 

spoke. 

The rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks. 
And pour'd their stormy cries through every 

cave. 

Each element was in motion then: the earth 
Stagger' d and spouted fire ; the winds — the seas — 
And the fierce rains were heard : and here and 

there 
The lightnings flew along their jagged paths, 
Like messengers of evil. 

CESARIO. 

Oh ! no more. 



Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house. 

How, with a sohtary lamp, perhaps, 

Above you, how this aged wretch would look. 

All his white hair blood- drench' d, and his eye 

with 
The horrid stare of dead mortality. 
And death's own marble smile that changes not: 
His hanging head, and useless neck — his old 
Affectionate heart that beat so fondly, now 
Like a stilled instrument. I could not kill 
A dog that loved me : could you ? 



No, sir — no. 



PRINCE. 

Why, you seem frightened. 



Of Etna ? 



CESARIO. 

Is't near the— eastward foot 



PRINCE. 

Yes : oh ! then you know the spot. 
Now, dear Cesario, couldst thou think a man, 
Setting aside all ties, could do a deed 
Of blackness there ? Why, 'tis within the reach 
Of Etna, and some thirty years ago 
(The last eruption,) when the lava rivers 
Took their course toward that point, this dweUing 

was 
In danger. I myself stood near the place. 



CESARIO. 

'Tis a fearful picture. 



PRINCE. 

Yet might it have been true. 



CESARIO. 

We'll hope not. 



Hope !— • 
That hope is past. How will the Spaniard look, 
Think you, Cesario, when the question comes 
Home to his heart ? In truth he could not look 
More pale than you do now. Cesario ! 
The eye of God has been upon him. 



I hope — 



Yes: 



Beware. 



CESARIO. 

My lord ! 



Beware, how you 
Curse him, for he is loaded heavily. 
Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world 



400 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



Will stamp its malediction on his head, 
And God and man disown him. 

CESARIO. 

Oh ! no more. 
No more, my dearest lord ; behold me here, 
Here at your feet — a wretch indeed, but now 
Won quite from crime. Spare me. 



Rise. I forgive 
Your wickedness to me : but men Uke you 
(Base, common, bribed stabbers) must not roam 
About the word so freely. 

CESARIO. 

Oh ! that now 
You could but see my heart ! 



I would not see 
Your bosom's black inhabitant. No more : 
But listen to me again — nay, speak not, sir. 
This is a different tale. Cesario ! 
When first you came to Sicily, you were 
A little child : your noble father, worn 
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time 
To beg protection for you ere he died. 
Since then, if in your memory I have fail' d 
In kindness tow'rd you, or good counselling, 
Reproach me. 

CESARIO. 

You have been most kind — too kind. 



Once, in a painful illness, when none else 
Would tread your infectious chamber (think on 

that,) 
I, though your prince — 

CESARIO. 

In pity ! 

PRINCE. 

Hear me speak. 
I gave that healing medicine to your lips. 
Which wanting you had died. I tended you, 
And was your nurse through many a sultry 

night, 
For you were quite abandon'd. 'Twas not well, 
I own, to risk my safety, for I was 
A crowned prince : yet, oh ! 'tis not for you 
To blame. Well ! you recover'd, and could use 
Your sword again : you tried it 'gainst my blood 
(My nephew then,) and I forgave it. 



CESARIO. 

Was in the heat of quarrel. 



That 



PRINCE. 

I have said 
That I forgave it. Then a most mean wish 
(You wish'd my wealth) possess'd you. I could 

never, 
I own it, have guess'd at that. 



Oh! 'twas not so. 

PRINCE. 

Well, then, it was not : but Aurelia's charms, 
(That cunning Phryne) have had power upon 

you 
Beyond your gratitude. Oh ! shame. 



- My lord! 
My father! oh ! once more believe me. I 
Do not deserve you should : but if you can 
Once again credit me, may hell's fierce tor- 
ments — 
But oh ! I will not, will not pain your love : 

Nay more, I will deserve it. 1 can die 

Now, for my mind has grown within this hour 
To firmness : yet, I now oould wish to five, 
To show you what I am. 



Cesario ! 
The world will blame me, but I'll try you still s 
You cannot have the heart (for you have one) 
Again to hurt me. Once, imperial Caesar 
Upon the young deluded Cinna laid 
His absolute pardon : 'twas a weight that he 
Could ne'er shake off. Cesario, thus from 
My soul I do forgive you. 

CESARIO. 

Thanks. 



What, ho ! 
Cesario, faint not. Why, thou'rt sillier now 
Than when Aurelia kiss'd your lip, and won 
Your soul to sin. Come : nay, there's no one 

knows 
Our quarrel. Let us bury it in our breasts. 
And talk as we were wont. 



A little time, 
My lord, and I may thank you. Now, if I 
Might dare to ask it, I would fain retire— 
And dwell on all your goodness. 



Farewell, thea. 



My noble prince, rest soundly : you have gained 
Cesario's soul twice over. If a knave 
Should say I wrong you now, believe him not. 
If I myself should swear I was your foe. 
Discredit me. Oh ! once more on my knees,- 
I thank you : dearest father ! look upon 
Your prodigal son. Thanks — ^from my heart. 



Farewell, 
Farewell, Cesario. Nay, compose yourself. 
Now go. Farewell, farewell. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



401 



WERNER, 



No human ear must be astonished with the story of 
my endowments and privileges. 

For me the laws of Nature are suspended ; the eter- 
nal wheels of the universe roll backward : I am des- 
tined to be triumphant over fate and time. 

I shall take my distant posterity by the hand : I shall 
accompany them in their career : and when they are 
worn out and exhausted, I shall shut up the tomb over 
them, and set forward. 

Past times had attached me deeply, irrevocably, to 
alt the members of my family. But I felt that I should 
survive them all. They would die one by one, and 
leave me alone. 

GoBWiTX— Travels of St. Leon. 



SCENE I. 

A Moom. 

Wernee,, Ellena. 



ELLENA. 



Indeed, I've heard- 



Ay, thou hast heard that I 
Have held communion with unearthly things, 
And brought them to my bidding. If 'tis so, 
And may it not ? perhaps thou — 

ELLENA. 

I have heard 
That men (but 'tis a foohsh fable) may, 
By midnight study, and sharp abstinence, 
And self-giv'n torture, and unholy prayer, 
And base desertion of the God they serve, 
And yielding up themselves a penalty, 
Acquire a power to do a world of wrong. 
But this is fable. 



Be not too sure : for once 
I knew a man ('twas in a distant country,) 
Who, fame did say, could draw the planets down 
By his dark art : and I have heard that he 
At times held converse with the winds (speaking 
In some strange melody,) and had the power 
To bid them waft him from remoter shores 
Their richest produce. Spirits he had, who 

brought 
Vast pearls, such as the expert divers find 
Hard by Ceylon; and gems above all price. 



Indeed ! 



Ay : they were rubies, blood-red, like Buns 
Setting through mist ; blue amethysts, too gay, 
Or else like weeping maiden's eyes, or violets 
Wet in the spring : emeralds, green as grass 
By splashing fountains : diamonds, hke stars 
On winter nights ; and gold in showers : all 

from 
The Ormus' mines : and from those Summer Isles 
That lift their green heads up i' the Indian Seas, 
51 



Rare fruits and perfumes : such as we, who dwell 
In orange-bowers, ne'er heard of. 



But you disbelieved the story ? 



I knew it to be trae. 



Oh! but you jest. 



' Tis true as that I stand, 
And breathe, and live. I — I am one of those 
Whom mighty Spirits from the mid-air, — beings 
Who have no home, save — all the universe ; 
Who wander on from sphere to sphere, and share 
Their subtle properties with man ; who bathe 
In flood and fire, and revel in the storm, 
And fling the shivering lightning round in sport, 
Themselves incorporate with the element : 
Ay, I am one to whom these beings bend 
In fear, and own obedience, and this hand, 
That seems but clay to thy disordered eye, 
Is spirit-fashioned ; 

And may, if but I will, bind in the winds : 
This tongue, that uttereth but a common sound, 
Can bid the mountain-wave go back, and hush 
The sea, hke a rash child, to quiet. 

ELLENA. 

Oh! 
If you have done this — but it cannot be. 
What ! turned a slave ? Oh ! you could not debase 
Your proud spirit so : say, say you have not. 



Sweet, 



I've told thee true. 



Again : my senses cheat rne 
Say it again, again : I'll not believe it. 



'Tis true, my Ellena : you shall see, and own 
How powerful my spell is. I will call 
The radiant Lucifer hither, and you shall see 
The beautiful Prince of Morning float before you, 
In shape like the feather' d Hermes, (crowned 

with 
His diadem of stars :) and you shall talk 
Famihar with that sceptred spirit, and meet 
His sweet and melancholy smile : and you 
Shall hear his voice hke the low winds in Autumn, 
And feel his breathing presence, soothing as 
The soft air of the valleys — Ah ! you're pale ! 
My Ellena ! 



Oh ! if you have done this, 
(But God forbid,) there is no hope left for you. 
Oh ! father, father, is it not written that 
Whoe'er shall worship these dark powers, shall 

bear 
Upon his brow, and fix upon his race 
A curse eternally : — your hand — I'm faint- 



402 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



My Ellena ! Ellena, awake ! Perhaps 
I may abjure — Look there ! So, — now 'tis gone. 
He frown'd and beckon'd with his shadowy arm. 
I — I must go : too late now. Dry your eyes : 
The dead are come amongst us — or the damned. 
What, do you glare ? Is't not enough that all 
Do fear and fly me : must you too, alas ! 
Shrink as an adder stung you? Oh ! do look 
But kindly on me ere I go : perhaps 
We shall not meet again : and 'tis not thus 
(Albeit I'm lost) the father and his child 
Should part. 

ELLENA. 

You do not love me. 



Ellena !— 



But I must go : farewell. 



ELLENA. 

No, no ; not yet. 
I will chng to you. Now you are in my arms, 
And nought that' s evil e' er shall reach you. Thus 
(It is most fit) within your child's embrace, 
Your own poor Ellena that you loved so once — 
Nay, go not ; father, father ! stay and hear me. 
In Heaven's name — 



Oh ! be silent. Look ! — Again 
The figure has burst his dim invisible bonds, 
And stands hke life before me. He commands, 
And I must bow. Away — [Rushes out. 



SCENE II. 

This is supposed to occur after a considerable lapse of 
time. 

WERNER, alone. 
This is a dreary world. The sun has made 
A cloudy set, as he died, his eye 
Look'd red and troubled, and did tell of storms 
To-morrow. A dark world — Still do I tread 
The ground as I was wont, and yet, I feel 
A wild and buoyant spirit here that seems 
To mingle with the circling element, 
And lift me upwards, whispering me I am 
In something different from man. I am : 
For I have run beyond my course, and left 
The world behind, and now I stand above 
The reach of mortal accident. I wish'd 
To be immortal, for my soul was proud 
And grasping ; want and woe hung on my heart, 
And I was bruised by foul authority ; 
And that I saw beyond my fellows, and 
Could read the secrets of the skies, and look 
Into the profound which spreads beyond the tomb 
Its dim inimitable regions, I 
Was spurned and hated ; but no more. I am 
Immortal now ; hundreds of untold years 
That now lie sleeping in the gulf of time, 
Shall rise and roll before me ere I die. 
My glance can reach the heart, and my hand rain 
Gold-showers, and invisible spirits stand 



Always around me : I can walk the waves. 
And ride the winged winds, and bid them fly 
On my dark errands, and I have the power 
To call the dead up from their stony rooms 
To do me service. — I have a haunt beside 
The bright home of the sun, ay, and can blind 
The red Orion when he eyes the seas. 
And strives to scatter from his cloudy arms 
Tempest and storm : and so I am — a wretch. 
— Oh ! I have outlived all — all. Ellena ! 
She's gone, poor wench : so fair and young, 

'twas pity. 
And my old friends (I had a few) — they've shook 
Their years away, and gone to rest in quiet. 
And now I have no sympathies with man. 
I'm link'd to nothing in this breathing world. 
I am not human : no, a subtler essence 
Fills me ; nor spirit — no, the clay weighs me 

down, 

And tells a heavy truth. Poor Ellena ! 

My only child ! How beautiful thou wast ! 
Once, in my earlier days, the hue o' thy cheek 
Was like the fruit-tree blossom, and thine eye 
Shone matchless in its watery brightness. Oh 1 
How like thy mother in her prime wast thou. 
Sweet mockery of the dead Vittoria ! 
— She's gone, and left me ; and the place she 

fiU'd 
In my heart is empty — empty. She has done 
Her travel : but my task is still to roam 
On through the world, and find no grave to stop 

at. 
The things I love pass by me, and the tide 
Has no returning. Like phantasms, or dreams, 
Or gay romances that in youth we read. 
The show dissolves, and dies. Look ! who is 

there ? 
How like a young divinity he stands, 
Dazzling the sight. Thus look'd Apollo in 
His youth, and thus (yet never half so fair) 
The delicate Ganymede, or that sleeping boy 
Whom Dian kiss'd o' nights. He's vanish'd. 

There's nothing good here : all is false and vile. 

'Tis a base world. — A little breathing time. 

And then I'll hie me to the mountains, and 

Riot alone. With men no more I'll hold 

Communion, but the wolf and ravenous kite 

Shall find a benefactor. I'll be great: 

And on some crag I'll build, and hollow it out, 

A pyramid of ice, high as the top 

Of snowy TenerifT; and there I'll sit, 

A giant in that lofty wilderness. 

Alone : and nothing but the rude north wind 

Shall visit me. He, with his blustering cheeks, 

Shall whistle through my cave, and sing at times 

Low dirges to me, mournfully, as though 

I had deceased : and he shall scatter round 

In sport the virgin snow, and cover me, 

So I shall sleep in purity. — Or I 

Will he beneath the shade of columns or tombs 

Forgotten, where the ashes of those men 

Who fiU'd the world with fame, sleep now 

inurned, 
Or on Athenian ground, or storied Troy ; 
Or marble Thebes, upon whose sands long since 
The amorous Memnon in the morning hght 
Sang to the young Aurora — for amongst 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



403 



Those haunts the spirits of the elder time 

Wander invisibly ; and we will talk 

Beneath the quiet of the midnight sky, 

Of things and days departed ; till the sound 

Shall fall like melancholy music on 

My soul. — Or, haplier, far and far away, 

Beside some silent lake, encompass'd 'round 

By mighty hills, I'll lay me down at last. 

An idler on that solitary shore, 

And upon every cloud and passing thing. 

And every wind that stirs, or feather'd bird 

That dips its plumage in the waters, I 

Will through the lazy noon- tide moralize ; 

And so I'll learn tranquillity. No, no. 

I mtist have motion, that I may — forget. 
Ay, I'll scour as tempests do, the middle air 
(But never free't from bhght,) and mount and 

mount. 
And feast upon the wonders of the stars, 
And that may entirely turn my brain. The moon 
Shall be my chariot, and from vaporous clouds, 
I'll fashion (giving them life, fire, and motion,) 
Horses, whose manes shall shake the light away, 
As did the fabled steeds of Phaeton. 

'Tis a brave world. I'll dwell alone — alone. 
And none shall touch me ; none shall look on 

me. 
Or if he doth, be blasted. Ay, I'll dwell 
Aloft ; no equal: and no — ah, no friend. 
That's hard ; then not alone — not quite alone. 
Let there be something, though a dog, which I 
May waste a little kindness on. Let there be 
A something on this visible globe that may 
Have leave to love me ; something I may love : 
And dogs they say are faithful. Oh ! I'll give 
Intelligence unto him, and he shall be 
My Argus, and my bold confederate, 
And we will wander through the world together, 
Good friends aSd honest, and — but he wU die, 
And leave me, and so on ; and I shall see 
Friends, generations pass away — away. 
Like puppets — shades, they'll tread the common 

road 
To death, and find a home. No home for me : 
The very grave rejects me. I must live 
Hundreds of years — long years. Oh ! I shall 

pass 
{I feel it) my time in sohtude ; set apart 
From all, a man forbidden. 



THE RETURN OF MARK ANTONY. 



Fye, wrangling queen ! 

Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh, 
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
To make itself, in thee, fair and admired. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

Ant. Would 1 had never seen her ! 

Eno. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful 
piece of work ; which not to have been blessed withal, 
would have discredited your travel. 

The same. 



SCENE. 

A Boom in the Palace of Cleopatra. 

Cleopatra, Chakmian, Iras. 

cleopatra. 



No tidings yet ? 

CHARMIAN. 

None, madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

None !— Shame on thee, jealous queen ! 

It is because I dared to imitate 

Thy carriage, that thou shakest me thus ? For I 

Have been as tetchy and as proud as thou : 

As jealous and imperative ; and have had 

The Jove of all this world for mine (he whom 

Dear Caesar loved,) the great Mark Antony. 



Alast 

CLEOPATRA. 

Oh ! Juno ! pity my sad state. 
And never more on Venus' altar vdll 
I hang an offering. Isis ! thou shall be 
Never remembered. 

CHARMIAN. 

Hark ! I hear a shout. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Excellent wench I Hie thee, good Charmian, 
And know the cause. 

CHARMIAN. 

No: 'twas but fancy. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Fool! 

Thus to deceive me. O ye do conspire 
To tear my heart. Away I I'll be alone ; 
And all my love shall now be solitude ; 
And I will gaze upon the horned moon 
By night, and pay my vows to chastity : 
And every petty star that comes and goes 
I'll think a sphered Antony, and so bow to't. 
But he is gone : dead, dead, alas ! and I 
Feel now a tightness 'round my bursting heart 
That ne'er was there before. 



Take comfort, inadam<> 



Hark ! Nc 



CLEOPATRA. 
3RAS. 

My gracious queen ! 



CLEOPATRA {not heeding them.) 

Now will I bare 
My bosom, and the soft and summer winds 
Shall play upon't, and whisper pretty tales : 
How, once, there was a king (a Roman king) 
Who loved a dark Egyptian ; and how he 
Did leave his country, and his state — his wife 
(That was not well,) for her. What was her 

name? 
Why — Cleopatra. BuJ he died. ' 



t4i04 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



IRAS. 


CjESARIon enters. 


Again ? 


CLEOPATRA. 


I heard a noise : Again — and, hark ! they shout 


Cffisarion I My dear child ! 


Long life to Antony. 


Come hither, boy, and fear not. How ! — look up: 


CLEOPATRA. 


'Tis but a Roman soldier, sirrah, and you 


Why then he hves. 


Are son to Cleopatra. 


My tender Iras '. Here, a chain of pearls. 


ANTONY. 


Worth half Numidia: take, and wear 'em. 


To whom beside ! 


wench : 


You'd better tell him all. 


They were a queen's: ay, and her lover's gift. 




Now go, and bring me Antony. 


CLEOPATRA. 




I will : and yet 


IRAS. 


I will not. No, it is enough he is 


He comes. 


The queen of Egypt's son, sir. If he lives 




He'll know in time (I'll whisper it) that he 


CLEOPATRA. 


Sprung fi-om a hero ; but his fiery blood 


Comes he indeed ? We will not see him — yet. 


Will tell the secret to his heart, though I 


[Sits. 


Should fail to do't. 


Antony enters. 


ANTONY. 


ANTON¥. 


Begone ! 


My dearest love I 


CLEOPATRA. 


CLEOPATRA. 


Csesarion, stay! 


Who's there? — the Roman soldier! Sir, your 

wife, 
The fair Octavia, is not here : Nay, you, 
Perhaps, are but a cozener ; for we heard 


My lord, you are too free. Oh ! frown not : You 
Stand in the palace of the Ptolemies, 


And I am mistress there. These manners do 
Not suit me ; are — are they from Italy ? 


That you had died ; ay, 'twas in Sicily: 


ANTONY. 


There where of late you married. 


By all the gods ! 


ANTONY. 


CLEOPATRA. 


Cleopatra ! 


Now go, Ceesarion. [Cjes. exit. 


CLEOPATRA. 


Dear boy ; how like his father — Ah! — you will 




Not strike me,: valiant sir ? 


My lord, your look's familiar : leave it quick : 




We are great Isis. Know you that, my — lord ; 


ANTONY. 


And kings have bent lowly before our feet, 


Oh! that you were 


As to a shrined goddess. Kings, sir ! then 


A man — a soldier — fifty — 'with the souls 


Why not a Roman triumvir I 


Of a hundred swart Egyptians. By my sword ! 


ANTONY. 


CLEOPATRA. 


Peace, my heart ! 


You'd sheath it. 


CLEOPATRA. 


ANTONY. 


I am grown old ; had Cassar lived 


Away, away ! — Have I for thee. 




Forgot Octavia? left my place at home. 


ANTONY, 


Heedless of safety, of renown (ah! shame,) 


Away! 


For thee, thou fickle and insidious queen ? 


You'll tempt me. 


Have I not left my seat of thunder, where 


CLEOPATRA. 


Though but a Roman triumvir, kings have not 


Likely ; that Octavia did. 


dared 
Come, but at humble distance ? — Cleopatra ! 


ANTONY. 


It is because I have abandoned all 


Nay, nay. 


For thee, that thou disdain'st me? Perjured 




queen ! 


CLEOPATRA. 


What wouldst thou ? Does not half the mortal 


Sir, is the charm worn, that you come 


world 


E'or help to Egypt ? Ah, poor Egypt! She 


Kneel in thy chains ? and still thou art insatiate : 


Must smile howe'er the world runs. Ha ! — But, 


By Mars ! I am betrayed. 


sir, 
We have no leisure now ; to-morrow, if 


CLEOPATRA. 


You seek, on state affairs, an audience — - 


Oh ! no, no, no, [Rising. 




Oh ! Antony, Antony ! Come, and on my heart 


ANTONY. 


Press thou thy palm, and feel if the beatings there 


How ! 


Tell of thy soul's sedition. Antony ! 


I'm all amaze. 


And hast thou left Octavia, and— for me ? 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



405 



Oh ! my own warrior, now forgive, forgive. 
That I did play the churl, and seem to doubt 
Thy constant mind : my husband 1 Antony ! 

ANTONY. 

Ah ! wayward queen ! 

CLEOPATKA. 

No more. 



CLEOPATRA. 

Pity me, for I thought 

ANTONY. 



And jealous ? 



Nay, 



Fool ! I am come 



At last. 



CLEOPATRA. 



Thanks to the skiey deities. 
Away, good Iris : we will feast to-night, 
As though the globe were conquer' d : let there be 
Fires, and high votive altars raised throughout 
The city : and let Juno's temple blaze 
As though her husband's lightnings were im- 
press' d 
To do us service. We'll do it royally : 
Shall we not, mighty Antony? [Laughing. 

ANTONY. 

Nobly, sweet. 
Now thou'rt my queen again : and dost become 
Joy — Oh ! as Dian honours chastity : 
Or as Jove's bird, among the mountain storms. 
Becomes his throned hill ; or bloody Mars 
The rage of battle ; or — Ha ! who comes here ? 

DoMiTius enters. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Welcome to Egypt, sir. Domitius has 
Forgot Ms Egyptian colour; look, my lord. 
Take heed, sir, there is one I know who loves 
To see the sun upon you. 

DOMITIUS. 

Thanks, great queen. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I hate the Itahan paleness : are your ladies 
As pale as you are now ? Tell me, sir : nay — 
My lord here likes the sickly white. 



No, no. 



CLEOPATRA. 

Now, does he not, Domitius ? 



Mind her not. 

CLEOPATRA. 

There was a fair girl that I've heard he loved 
At Rome, once — Cytheris : Cytheris, that was 

she. 
Domitius, was she lovely ? 

ANTONY. 

Oh ! a beauty. 



She was a rare wench ! a sweet woman. Jove ! 
What a foot she had ! and her round arm seem'd 

as 
'Twas shaped from ivory. By Venus, she 
Had not her match in Rome. Her soft blue 



eyes — 



CLEOPATRA. 



My lord is fond of black : are you not, love ? 
Speak out, my lord : there's no one to offend. 
Oh ! Isis, he forgets : he knows not which. 
Domitius, tell him of this creature ! this — 
With her dull blue eyes, and pretty milk-white 

face, 
On which he doated so. 

DOMITIUS. 

Nay, she was fair. 

CLEOPATRA. 

You said so, sir, before — I thank you. But 
You were a youth then, were you not, my lord ? 
Had never been in Egypt, where the skies 
Show'r down a summer colour on our cheeks. 
And fill the eyes with light. Now, can you boast 
Of Roman hearts like ours ? 

DOMITIUS. 

No, madam, no. 
They make us run to catch 'em. Here, the 

women 
Are kinder: much. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I knew it. 



DOMITIUS. 



More than we want at times. 



Ay ; they'll give 



No more, no more. 
He has left a love in Italy, my queen. 
And rails at sun-burnt Egypt: pity him. 
Had he been warm'd by Cleopatra's smile. 
And won her love imperial ; had he worn 
The last flower of the Ptolemies on his breast, 
And fed upon its fragrance, till his soul 
Grew almost sick with sweets — as I have, dear. 
He'd tell a different story : but I now 
Must give directions 'bout the ambassadors. 
I'll follow you, Domitius. [Domitius exit, 

CLEOPATRA. 

Be not long 
Absent, my lord. You will not ? I will be 
Here an hour hence. 

ANTONY. 

To-night we — 

CLEOPATRA. 

Oh ! we'll have 
A night of wonder. Not a slave shall droop 
In Egypt : we'll spread happiness 'round, and be 
As fertile in our bounties as the Nile. 
Your gloomy Saturn shall forget to frown 



406 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



For one brave night, and light his lamp afresh ; 
And Bacchus shall be crown'd, and all the gods 
Of Rome shall mix with Lybian deities. 
The sooty ^thiop, in his chains no more, 
Shall crush the purple grape, and laugh and drink 
A health to Cleopatra : Love and long health to 
The mighty Antony : United healths 
To Egypt's queen and Roman Antony. 

ANTONV. 

It shall be as you please. 

CLEOPATEA. 

And as you please. 



'Twill be the same. Fair Venus '. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Oh! forgot: 
Haste, Charmian, haste, and bid my women go 
And strip the gardens of the hanging rose 
(The red rose, gentle Charmian, for it is 
The emblem of warm love ;) and rear every 

where 
In lonely spots, and sweet sequester' d arbours, 
By streaming brooks, and lonely lulling fountains, 
Altars to Cytherea. And burn there 
Lamps of perfumed oil (but few, for love 
Is holy, and abhors the glaring light:) 
And we will kneel, and thank the queen of 

beauty 
That Antony is safe. 



ANTONY. 

There is no time 



For this, sweet I 



CLEOPATRA. 



Oh ! yes, yes. And / will kneel 
Alone, and 'neath the soft and silvery light 
Of Hesperus, tell to every whistling bough 
What music's in the name of Antony ; 
Until each quivering leaf shall stay its noise 
To catch the word harmonious. Oh ! and then. 
When I my vows have paid, I will be crowned ; 
Not as the Nilus' queen, but on my brow 
(Sweet Cytherea, how I love thee !) I 
Will have a crown of Love's own flow'rs, so 

sweet 
That Zephyr shall mistake his nymph, and woo 
Me with his faint and witching numbers ; and — 

I— 
And I — will then disdain the fluttering god. 
^nd cast me in the arms of Antony. 

[Emhrtiees him. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



Pistol. Thou hast sfioke the right ; 
His heart is fracted and corroborate. 

Henry V. 



This sketch is founded upon a tale of Boccaccio. The 
utory is this— Jeronymo was sent from Italy to Paris 



in order to complete his studies. He was detained 
there two years, his mother being fearful lest he 
should marry a poor and beautiful girl (Sylvestra,) 
with whom he had been brought up from his infancy. 
During his absence his mother contrived to have 
Sylvestra married. He returned, and after wander- 
ing about her dwelling, succeeded in getting into 
her chamber, conversed with her (her husband 
being asleep,) and, at last, died on the bed before 
her. 



SCENE I. 

A Room. 

Jeronymo, his Mother. 

MOTHER. 

Pr'ythee, take comfort, child; why how you 

look — 
Speak, dear Jeronymo ! 

JERONYMO. 

You have done this? 

MOTHER. 

' Twas for your good. 

JERONYMO. 

Oh! mother, mother; you 
Have broke the fondest heart in Italy. 
My good — what's that ? Is't good that I shall die f 
Is't good that I shall pine and waste away, 
And shrink within my natural compass, and 
In melancholy idlesse haunt the nest 
Where my white dove lies guarded 

MOTHER. 

P atience — nay— 

JERONYMO. 

Until I die, good mother ? I shall die 
(Mark me, and think my words a prophecy) 

Before you, day by day. My head feels light : 

But then my heart's gone, so it matters not. 
Sylvestra, sweet Sylvestra ! 

MOTHER. 

Name her not. 
Oh ! she's the cause of all our sorrow — all. 
You must not think of her now. 



No ! not now ? 



JERONYMO. 
MOTHER. 

No ; for she's married. 

JERONYMO. 

Ha, ha, ha ! good mothei. 
Shame ! at your time to jest. 

( MOTHER. 

I told you this 
Before ; she's married — married. 



JERONYMO. 



Pshaw! I know it: 



Am I not — broken-hearted ? 



MOTHER. 

Oh ! sweet heavens. 



Jeronymo ! 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



407 



JERONYMO. 



Well. 



Why do you talk thus ? 
So strangely, dear, to me ? My own boy — think 
On me, sweet. 

JERONYMO. 

Surely; for you thought of me, 
Even in absence : therefore I'll be grateful, 
And do you a good turn, mother, pray, believe't: 
I'll make you heir of all my father's lands. 
Chattels, and gold, and floating argosies. 
With not a widow or a child to share 'em with 

you. 
Here's gratitude. I'll swear't : By noisy Jove, 
Red Mars, and bearded Saturn 



Pr'ythee cease. 



JERONYMO. 

Oh ! you're grown modest since my father died. 
And will not court the gods. By Venus then 
(You'll like her, for she — cheated all the world,) 
Or Juno, radiant Juno : she took note 
Of great Jove's pranks, when absent ; and, you 

know. 
Strangled the innocent passion love, at times, 
And marred poor damsels' happiness — as you did : 
By- 

MOTHER. 

Do not talk thus. Oh ! if not for me, 
For your dear father's sake, Jeronymo, 
Spare me. 

JERONYMO. 

My father? out, alas ! he's dead. 



He temper'd the warm feelings of his heart 
(Which else perhaps had led to strife or ruin) 
By draughts of that divine philosophy 



Ay, that's the drink I love. At Paris, madam. 
There we had flasks of it ; cork'd as tight as 

though 
It were a conjuror's secret, and I drank. 
And drank and drank the livelong day and night, 
And chew'd the bitter laurel for my food. 
Whose roots are water'd, as the poets tell, 
By the immortal wells of Castaly. 
I wish'd for ambrosia, but the gods are grown 
Economists, and hoard it for the good 
And great in after times. 



Alas ! alas ! 



JERONYMO. 

Why that looks well. 

MOTHER. 

What? 



Oh ! to see you weep, 
Although your husband died so long ago. 

MOTHER. 

I do not weep for him. 

JERONYMO. 

Not weep for him ? 
Then shame seal up your mouth. Was he not 

kind 
And good ? You told me so ; and yet you weep 

not. 
Weep you for widowhood ? Oh ! you may gain 
Another husband yet. 

MOTHER. 

I do not wish it : 
I cannot match the last. 

JERONYMO. 

You cannot, madam. 
No, though you gaze when Hesper comes, until 
The last star sinks below the western heavens, 
You cannot match him. Oh ! he was a man : 
How few there are such ! and how he did joy 
To mark his look in my poor sickly face. 
And loved and did caress me as I had been 
Fair as the god Apollo. But he died : 
And how he fear'd (do you remember that ?) 
Lest I should sink, and leave no name behind 

me ; 
No child who might inherit, and transmit 
Our noble name to far posterity : 
Do you remember this, good mother ? I 
Am the last scion of a gracious tree. 
And you — ay, you have struck me to the root, 
And withered all my branches. Now, farewell. 

Sylvestra! Mighty mother, you have broke 

Your wand at last. 

MOTHER. 

Farewell, farewell. 

JERONYMO. 



Yet stay — Ah ! mother, bless you. 



FareweUL 
[Exeuiit. 



SCENE II. 

Sylvestra' s Chamber. 

Jeronymo, Sylvestra. 

jeronymo. 
So, all is hush'd at last. Hist ! There she lies. 
Who should have been my own. Sylvestra !— 

No: 
She sleeps ; and from her parted lips there comes 
A fragrance, such as April mornings draw 
From the awakening flowers. There lies her 

arm, 
Stretch'd out like marble on the quilted lid, 
And motionless. What if she lives not ? Oh ! 
How beautiful she is ! How far beyond 



408 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Those bright creations, which the fabling Greeks 
Placed on their white Olympus. That great 

queen 
Before whose eye Jove's starry armies shrank 
To darkness, and the wide and billowy seas 
Grew tranquil, was a spotted leper to her ; 
And never in such pure divinity 
Could sway the wanton blood, as she did — Hark ! 
She murmurs hke a cradled child. How soft 'tis. 
Sylvestra ! 

SYLVESTRA. 

Ha ! who's there ? 



JERONYMO. 



'Tis I. 



Who is it ? 

JERONYMO. 

Must I then speak, and tell my name to you ? 
Sylvestra, fair Sylvestra ! know me now : 
Not now ? and is my very voice so changed 
By wretchedness, that you — you know me not? 
Alas ! 

SYLVESTRA. 

Begone. I'll wake my husband if 
You tread a step : begone. 



JERONYMO. 



Jeronymo ! 



Ha! speak. 



SYLVESTRA. 
JERONYMO. 

Jeronymo. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Oh! 



JERONYMO. 

Hide your eyes ; 
Ay, hide them, married woman ! lest you see 
The wreck of him that loved you. 



SYLVESTRA. 



JERONYMO. 



Not me. 



Man's thoughts on high.) Some their lean arms 

have stretch' d 
' T ween murderers and their victims. Some have 

laugh' d 
Ghastly, upon — the bed of wantonness. 
And touch' d the limbs with death. 

SYLVESTRA. 

You will not harm me ? 

JERONYMO. 

Why should I ? — No, no, poor girl ! I come 

not 
To mar your delicate limbs with outrage. I 
Have loved too well for that. Had you but 

loved — 



I did— I did. 



SYLVESTRA. 



JERONYMO. 



Away — My brain is well 
(Though late 'twas hot.) You loved? away, 

away ! 
This to a dying man ? 



Yes. 
Loved you like life — like heaven and happiness, 
Loved you and kept your name against his heart 
(Ill-boding amulet) till death. 



SYLVESTRA. 

Oh ! you will live 
Long, ay, and happily : will wed, perhaps — 

JERONYMO. 

Nay, pr'ythee cease. Sylvestra ! you and I 
Were children here some few short springs ago, 
And loved hke children : I the elder ; you 
The loveliest girl that ever tied her hair 
Across a sunny brow of Italy. 
I still remember how your delicate foot 
Tripp'd on the lawn at vintage-time, and how. 
When others ask'd you, you would only give 
Your hand to me. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Alas ! Jeronymo. 

JERONYMO. 

Ay, that's the name : you had forgot. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Oh! no. 

Can I forget the many hours we've spent, 
When care had scarce begun to trouble us ? 
How were we wont, on Autumn nights, to stray. 
Counting the clouds that pass'd across the moon — 



SYLVESTRA. 

Alas! 

JERONYMO. 

And now I come to bring your wandering 

thoughts 
Back to their innocent home. Thus, as 'tis said, 
Do spirits quit their leaden urns, to tempt 
Wretches from sin. Some have been seen o' 

nights 
To stand and point their ratthng finger at 
The red moon as it rose (perhaps to turn 



Go on. 



JERONYMO. 



SYLVESTRA. 



And figuring many a shape grotesque : 
Camels and caravans, and mighty beasts, 
Hot prancing steeds, and warriors plumed and 

helm'd. 
All in the blue sky floating. 

JERONYMO. 

What is this? 

SYLVESTRA. 

I thought you liked to hear of it. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



409 



JERONYMO. 
SYLVESTKA. 

Then wherefore look so sadly ? 



I do. 



Can I do aught to comfort you? 



Fair Sylvestra, 



SYLVESTKA. 



You do forget yourself. 



Away, 



JERONYMO. 

Not so. Can I 
Do aught to serve you ? Speak ! my time is 

short, 
For death has touch' d me. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Now you're jesting. 



Girl! 
Now, I am — dying. Oh ! I feel my blood 
Ebb slowly ; and before the morning sun 
Visits your chamber through those trailing vines, 
I shall lie here, here in your chamber, dead. 
Dead, dead, dead, dead ! Nay, shrink not. 



You fright me. 



SYLVESTKA. 



JERONYMO. 



Pr'ythee go : 



Yet I'd not do so, Sylvestra : 
I will but tell you, you have used me harshly 
(That is not much,) and die: nay, fear me not. 
I would not chill, with this decaying touch, 
That bosom where the blue veins wander 'round. 
As if enamour'd and loath to leave their homes 
Of beauty : nor should this thy white cheek fade 
From fear at me, a poor heart-broken wretch. 
— Look at me. Why, the winds sing through my 

bones, 
And children jeer me ; and the boughs that wave 
And whisper loosely in the summer air, 
Shake their green leaves in mockery, as to say, 
" These are the longer hvers." 

SYLVESTKA. 

How is this ? 

JERONYMO. 

I've number'd eighteen summers. Much may lie 
In that short compass ; but my days have been 
Not happy. Death was busy with our house 
Early, and nipp'd the comforts of my home, 
And sickness paled my cheek, and fancies (like 
Bright but delusive stars) came wandering by me. 
There's one you know of: that — no matter — that 
Drew me from out my way (a perilous guide,) 
And left me sinking. I had gay hopes too, 
What needs the mention ? — they are vanish'd 



I thought, when you did stay abroad so long, 
And never sent nor ask'd of me or mine, 
You'd quite forgotten Italy. 



Was't so, indeed ? 



JERONYMO. 

Speak again. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Indeed, indeed. 

JERONYMO. 

Then be it. 
Yet, what had I done Fortune, that she could 
Abandon me so entirely ? Never mind 't : 
Have a good heart, Sylvestra: they who hate 
Can kill us, but no more, that's comfort. Oh ! 
The journey is but short, and we can reckon 
On slumbering sweetly with the freshest earth 
Sprinkled about us. There no storms can shake 
Our secure tenement ; nor need we fear, 
Though cruelty be busy with our fortunes 
Or scandal vnth our names. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Alas, alas ! 

JERONYMO. 

Sweet ! in the land to come we'll feed on flowers. 
Droop not, my beautiful child. Oh ! we will love 
Then without fear : no mothers there ; no gold, 
Nor hate, nor paltry perfidy, none, none. 
We have been doubly cheated. Who'll believe 
A mother could do this ? but let it pass : 
Anger suits not the grave. Oh ! my own love, 
Too late I see thy gentle constancy : 
I wrote, and wrote, but never heard ; at last, 
Quitting that place of pleasure, home I came, 
And found you married ! Then — 



SYLVESTRA. 



JERONYMO. 



Alas ! 



Thi?nT 

Grew moody ; and at times, I fear, my brq' \ 
Was fever'd : but I could not die,^^Vestra 
And bid you no farewell. ' 

SYLVE^r^/. 

Jeronymo ! 
Break not my h§t thus : they— they did deceive 

me. 
They told 5';hat the girls of France were fair. 
And youJd scorn' d your poor and childish love ; 
Threatfd, and vow'd, cajoU'd, and then — I 
aarried. 

JERONYMO. 



SYLVESTRA. 

What's the matter ? 



JERONYMO. 



SYLVESTRA. 



I thought — (speak softly, for my husband felee 
52 



Soft ! The night wind sounds 
A funeral dirge for me, sweet. Let me lie 
Upon thy breast ; I will not chill 't, my love. 
It is a shrine where Innocence might die : 
Nay, let me lie there once ; for once, Sylvestra. 



410 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



SYLVESTRA. 



Pity me ! 



JEEONYMO. 



So I do. 



SYLVESTKA. 

Then talk, not thus ; 
Though but a jest, it makes me tremble. 



Jest? 
Look in ray eye, and mark how true the tale 
I've told you. — On its glassy surface lies 
Death, my Sylvestra. It is Nature's last 
And beautiful effort to bequeath a fire 
To that bright ball on which the spirit sate 
Through life ; and look'dout, in its various moods, 
Of gentleness and joy, and love and hope. 
And gained this frail flesh credit in the world. 
It is the channel of the soul : its glance 
Draws and reveals that subtle power, that doth 
Redeem us from our gross mortality. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Why, now you're cheerful. 

JERONYMO. 

Yes; 'tis thus I'd die. 

SYLVES.TRA. 

Now /must smile. 

JERONYMO. 

Do so, and I'll smile too. 
I do ; albeit — ah ! now my parting words 
Lie heavy on my tongue ; my hps obey not, 
And — speech — comes difficult from me. While 

I can. 
Farewell. Sylvestra! where's your hand? 



SYLVESTRA. 



Ah ! cold. 



'Tis 



JERONYMO. 

but scorn it not, my own poor girl. 



mi > '^.HS hardly : bless 'em though. Thou 
They ve usee. ^ 

_, . ^\'' „ rt 's a mother, and may feel, 
Forgive theni^ One ,^^^_ Some air-more 
When that she knows me >. . 

„., ^'^ ' „ T t -• 'Tiv hands are 

Where are you? — 1 am bima— i 

numb'd: rj^-^^ 

This is a wintry night. So, — covL>.r mt 



JULIAN THE APOSTATE, 



SCENE I. 

The Tent of the Emperor Julian. Night— near 
day-break. 

JULIAN {.alone.) 

To-morrow ? — ay, to-morrow. The bright Sun 
Of my life will set in blood. Dark heavy clouds 
Are rolUng round about me, yet my eye 
Can reach into the dim eternity. 
And in its bosom is — my grave. Oh ! then. 
Valour and War, farewell ! Soldiers and friends, 
Who in the tempest of the battle, once. 
With your loves girded me like triple steel, 
I must be gone. Morning and Night farewell ! 
And all the beauty of this visible world ; 
And thou, fair Air ! who music art and perfume, 
Colour and light, and in thy silent arms 
Now nursest with cold dews the sleeping flower. 
And bidd'st the fever'd heart forget its pain, 
Shall I behold thee never again? — Never! 
A dull, protracting, melancholy word. 
That in an alien language, talks despair. 
" Never!" — then Hope is gone, and Time de- 
parted ; 
And Happiness that flies, and then returns, 
Making its presence precious — all are gone. 
— Is there no armour of the soul wherein 
I may array my thoughts and vanquish Death ? 
It may not be : my hour is come — is come : 
And I must tread upon that shadowy strand 
A shadow, a pale sohtary thing, 
For ages and for ages, and there be 
A Spirit filled with human thoughts and pains, 
Languishing for some remote Elysium. 
Great Mars, look down upon me : Am I not 
Thy son adopted I Oh ! my patron Mars, 
My father, and my god, I perish here 
For want of succour. Fate and Death, at hand, 
Wait smiling for the dust of JuHan ; 
And the grave opens, with a sickly smile, 
Its hollow home inviting me to rest : 
Away — this must not be. Imperial Rome 
Leans on my sword. — Who goes ? 

Anatolius enters. 



ANATOLIUS, 



My emperor ! 



You are- 



'Tis nothing — nothing: I am well. 
Come hither, Anatolius : sit by me. 
To-morrow I — pshaw ! that's for after thought. 
To-morrow we must give the Persians battle. 
What say you, sir? Is your heart firm, or have 
These Syrian suns withered your spirit up ? 



Many of the facts stated or referred to in this Sketci-.^ 
may be found in Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire. On the night before the Emperor 
Julian fought his last battle, he had the dream which 
1 have detailed in the first scene of this Sketch; and 
it is recorded that on the night of his death he ad- 
dressed his soldiers, distributed rewards amongst 
them, and conversed with the sophists around him 



ANATOLIUS. 

is the same as ever. 

' JULIAN, 

My good soldier. 
anatolius. 
s but once meet Sapor face to face : 



J ... - ^^ , ^ UU.I- yjH\^^ 4X4../../V .^x^^yji *«vyv i-v .««- . 

respecting the immortality of the Soul. The names l^et ^^^_ q^ , ^j^^^ ^^ should fly from slaves, 
of Anatolius, Nevitta, etc. are taken from history. 1 We' 



DRAMATIC SCENES 



411 



Whom we have fought and beat day after day, 
Till we were faint with conquest 



Forget this. 
'Tis true, indeed, we take less time for breathing. 
Now that we march for Rome, than when we 

came 
Intent to see the Persian on his throne : 
And in our trumpets now the wailing notes 
Sound lingering and prolong'd. Well ! 'twas not 

so 
When we did visit Antioch — no, by Mars, 
Nor when we rode through Anatho, or pushed 
Our battering engines through the gates of 

Anbar. 
Those were good times — great times. 

ANATOLIUS. 

Ay, when we shook 
Down to the dust their sixteen towers of brick 
At Maogamalcha, and did mine our way 
Beneath the dark foundation of its walls, 
The Persian did not smile : there was no time — 
And yet (before) do you remember how 
They laughed upon us from their ramparts, and 
Sung out with lusty lungs triumphant songs 
About the glory of Sapor (then he hid 
His head in Ctesiphon,) and — but you droop, 
My noble king ! — 



Good Anatolius, you 
Have been my friend and fellow soldier long ; 
From my youth upwards. We have fought to- 
gether 
In Germany and Gaul, and on the banks 
Of the black Danube, when its waters lay 
'Tween us and Hope. 

ANATOLIUS. 

Like a dark rolling Hell. 
Oh ! I remember it. 

JULIAN. 

My spirit never 
Quail'd in those times of peril, yet — 



ANATOLIUS. 



My lord ? 



Nor doth it now : but there is on my soul 

A solemn foreboding that to-morrow's light — 

— To-day's — for even now the clouds begin 

To break about the east, and dawn is here 

Before the stars have left us : Be it so. 

My fate comes onward with a hurrying step : 

I'll meet it as becomes me. — My old friend, 

Bear with me, and believe no idle fears 

Shake me at this great hour. Thou shalt never 

Blush to behold thine old companion die. 

Who once fought well beside thee. 

ANATOLIUS. 

Oh 1 you hurt me. 
By the great Jove you tear my heart away. 
Why will you do it ? 



My dear soldier, this 
Is the last day of Julian. Mourn it not. 
Early I die, but in my life I have 
Seen many things that age but seldom looks onj 
Pleasure and power and peril. I have made 
Myself a name, and carried the Roman arms 
Nobly amongst the nations. I shall be 
Known to far ages as a man who bowed 
Before his ancient gods, and left a path 
In which he thought he err'd, for one more bright: 
Nor, when posterity shall speak of me, 
Will it forget to say that I — (I hope not) 
Was Anatolius' friend. 

ANATOLIUS. 

I cannot stay. 
I shall be angry with you — 'Oh ! is it thus 
You tune my ear for battle. I shall not fight 
As I was wont : I know it. Farewell now ; 
We'll talk of this to-morrow. 



Oh ! to-day 
I must say something, Anatolius ; 
And you must listen, for 'twill ease my soul. 
Fear not for me to-day. You'll see my sword 
As busy as ever at its bloody work. 
And, in the van, my plume. I have a leaf 
From the green crown of Victory. You shall see 
How soon we'll tame the Persian spirits down. 

ANATOLIUS. 

Ay, now you speak like Julian. Oh! we'll beat 
These brown barbarians to their silken tents, 
As we were wont. Let's talk of better times, 
(If we must talk) — of the old Roman times, 
When our rich veins fed Conquest witlr their 

blood, 
And fear was stifled in our hearts. Away — 
We'll fight as bravely as great JuUus did. 
And feast to-day with Sapor. 



You shall do it. 
And now but listen to me. — I have had 
A solemn dream. Methought there did appear 
The Genius of my country by my couch: 
He held the horn of plenty in his hand. 
And, covering it with a veil funereal. 
Shrouded his head in darkness: Slowly then 
Without a word — one word, he floated out, 
And left me in my tent, — alone. 



ANATOLIUS. 



Go on. 



Go on. 



I 'woke and started from my bed 
But there was nothing, — nought : So, I went forth, 
(Then wide awake)- to look upon the sky ; 
For I have studied deeply the high art 
Of divination, and can read the stars — 



ANATOLIUS. 



You jest. 



412 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



No ; by my father's spirit. Until now 
You never heard me tell of this : but, once — 
'Tis long ago — at Athens — (ere I dreamt 
Of Rome or of the purple,) I was wont 
To commune with her grey philosophers ; 
And they did bare the secrets of the grave, 
And showed unto mine eyes Cadmean scrolls, 
Torn from the tombs of Egypt. I became 
An Eleusinian, and partook those rites 
Mysterious and sublime, which no man knows 
Save only the elect. I have listened to 
The famous oracles ; and, once a day, 
Have heard at Thebes the lonely marble voice 
Speak out unto Apollo. I have learned 
Magic, and things that since the birth of time, 
Have all been hidden from inferior minds. 
Which better thrive in darkness than in light. 



ANATOLltJS. 



And now- 



And now, I can divine my fate. 
Last night I saw my tutelary star 
('Tis Mars) rolling in the blue firmament. 
Usurping all one quarter of the sky ; 
At last he seemed to shake, and left his orb, 
Streaming athwart the Heavens. Methought he 

went 
To meet the moon and died. By Serapis ! 
I saw him vanish in the east. 

ANATOLIUS. 

Away! 
And what of this ? 'tis nothing. 

JULIAN. 

I am now 
Deserted by my planetary God. 
Ah ! — the sun comes : then I must haste to 

speak. 
— You must remember when Constantius died; 
He left a widow. 

ANATOLIUS. 

And a child. 



'T was so. 
Eusebia was — even while Constantius' wife. 
Gracious to me. In boyhood, when I was 
Once in great danger, she did plead my cause 
(You know how eloquent she was,) and saved 

me; 
And ever after, through my chequer'd life, 
She stood my friend. Beneath her warming 

smile 
My fortunes flourished, and I grew to power. 
Who else perhaps had lived not. 

ANATOLIUS. 

That was noble. 
I did not know what cause you had to love her. 



She loved me ; more perhaps than might become 
The Emperor's wife (for when I wedded Helena 



She was estranged awhile, and saw me not;) 
But my wife died, and then Constantius fell. 
Hated by all. Somewhat indeed of hate 
(Unjustly) chngs upon his widow still. 
When I have perished, Anatolius, thou 
Wilt be Eusebia's friend ? 

ANATOLIUS. 

I will, I will. 
But you will live. 

JULIAN. 

But should I die, my soldier, 
(I must) do thou be poor Eusebia's friend. 
Bid her retire to Athens. She will there 
Be safe, and (for I know her,) glad to shun 
The imperial splendour. Well! what say you, 

friend ? 
Julian to Anatolius speaks his last. 

ANATOLIUS. 

I swear by all — by these hot shameful tears : 
But — but I too may fall. 



Look on this pacquet. 
Bear it about thee, and lest any harm 
(The Gods keep harm from thee) hinder thee from 
Befriending the poor queen, tell to Nevitta, 
Before the battle, this his general's wish. 
He will do all, I think (but not as thou) 
Eusebia's gloomier fortunes ask. Tell him 
To look upon my arm when I am dead, 
And he'll see there a scar I got in Gaul. 
It saved his life once : bid him think on that, 
And be my friend for ever. 



SCENE II. 

Julian's Tent. — Evening. 

Julian (ow Ms couch, wounded,) Prtscus, Maxi- 

MUS. 
MAXIMUS. 

You're easier now ? 

JULIAN. 

Much easier : many thanks. 
— And so you think, good Priscus, that the Soul 
Doth of necessity quit this feeble clay. 
When the poor breath departs, — that 'tis not 

hung 
On muscle Or nerve, or buried in the blood, 
As some will teach. For my part, I believe 
That there is good and evil, and for each 
Due punishment and reward. Shall we not meet 
Our friends hereafter, think you, Maximus ? 

MAXIMUS. 

I hope so, my dear lord. 

JULIAN. 

What think you, sir ? 

PKISCUS. 

I must believe it. There is in the world 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



413 



Nothing to fill up the wide heart of man ; 
He languishes for something past the grave ; 
He hopes — and Hope was never vainly given. 

MAXIMUS. 

Hope treads but shadowy ground, at best. 

PRISCUS'. 

It is— 



We've lost- 



MAXIMUS. 



A guess. 



And yet, Priscus is right, I think : 
And Hope has in the soul obscure allies — 
Remorse, for evil acts ; the dread of death; 
Anticipative joy (though that, indeed, 
Is Hope, more certain;) and as Priscus says, 
That inward languishment of mind, which 

dreams 
Of some remote and high accomplishment, 
And pictures to our fancies perfect sights. 
Sounds and delights celestial ; and, above all, 
That feeling of a limitary power. 
Which strikes and circumscribes the soulj^and 

speaks 
Dimly, but with a voice potential, of 
Wonders beyond the world, ethereal. 
Starry, and pure, and sweet, and never-ending. 
I cannot think that the great Mind of man, 
With its accumulated wisdoms too, 
Must perish ; why, the words he utters live ; 
And is the spirit which gives birth to things 
Below its own creations ? — Who is there ? 

An Officer enters. 



My lord, the cor.\mander Nevitta asks 
An audience, 

JULIAN. 

Bid hira come. I have not seen 
Our friend (how is it?) Anatolius here. 

Nevitta enters. 
Your hand, my good JNTevitta : Well ! you see 
We beat the Persian bravely to his camp : 
You'll tell 'em yet, at home, how well they ride 
In Syria, when we spui- their horses on. 
Indeed — ^but where is Anatolius ? — Gods ! 
Come near, Nevitta. 

NEVITTA. 

He hath given to me — 

JULIAN. 

Then he is dead. Great Minos ! judge him kindly. 

He was the bravest soldier. 



He is gone 
Before us, my dear lord. He had a task, 
Which I have sworn to do. 

ITTLIAN. 

Friend ! many thanks. 
I'll look for thee hereafter, as for one 
Who did me noble service. Maximus, 



MAXIMUS. 

Who? 



Anatolius — an old friend : 

Our fellow soldier; nay, he was to me, 

A tutor in the art of war. In youth, 

I fought beneath him ; after as his fellow ; 

And last his king. He had great courage, sirs ; 

I saw him strike a bounding lion once. 

When taller men fled trembling. He fought well 

At Anatho, and Anbar, and in Gaul, 

And Germany, and Maogamalcha, when 

We washed ourselves in blood. Old Sapor now 

May sun him boldly on his parched plains. 

Yet, pardon, good Nevitta: thou art brave, 

As warrior may be — oh ! and many others. 

Let it be Anatolius' perfect praise 

To say he well became his titles, — 'Well ; 

And died like a Roman soldier. 



To see you better, noble lord. 



I rejoice 



I am. 
The pains are gone, Nevitta, and I pass 
Pleasantly on : the road leads to the skies, 
And mine's a summer's journey. — ^Who are they 
That wait without ? methought I heard a sound 
Like murmurs : I would fain depart at least 
With my friends' smiles around me. Oh! let me 

have 
No wailing voices to disturb my sleep ; 
No ghosts of injured men to come and shriek 
Perdition in my ears, and bar me from 
Golden eternity. 

NEVITTA. 

Your soldiers ask 
To see once more their Emperor. 



MAXIMUS. 



They cannot. 



Bid them come in — I thank you, Maximus, 
For your kind care, but it will soothe my heart 
To look upon my soldiers once again. 
There's httle time to spare, and I would fain 
Say a few words at parting. 

Nevitta calls the Soldiers in. 

MAXIMUS. 

They are here. 



Welcome, my friends. Ah ! raise me higher : 

thanks. 
Give me a moment for recovery. [A pause. 

Friends,* 
And fellow soldiers, the good season of 
My death, is now at hand, and I discharge 
(As doth a ready debtor) every claim 



* These are nearly the words of JuUau). 



414 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Great nature makes ; for I have long been taught 

By lessons of divine philosophy 

How much the soul is better than the clay 

That holds it ; and that man should more rejoice 

Than grieve when separates the nobler part ; 

And from rehgion I have learned that death 

Early is proof the Gods do love us well. 

I have sought ever your happiness : firm peace 

Was my first aim, but when my country's voice 

Did summon me to arms, I bared my heart 

To war and all its dangers, knowing (for 

I could divine my fate) that I must die 

In battle. — Now unto great Jove I offer 

My thanks that he hath saved me from disease, 

False friends, and the darts of foul conspirators. 

He gave me a career of glory, and now 

An honourable end: thus much I've tried 

To say, but my strength fails me, and I feel 

Death is at hand. Choose for yourselves, my 

friends. 
Another emperor now: the one who sheds 
His blessing on you, is about to pass 
Unto the stars. 

SOLDIERS. 

Alas ! Alas ! 



Weep not. 
Oh ! my good soldiers, weep not. You have been 
All that your king has ever wished — till now. 
Oh ! you unman me : let us say farewell 
Before we stain our cheeks with too much tears. 
Yet — I've a few bequests. I love ye all 
Alike ; but there are some (a few) to whom 
The chances of the war have made me debtor. 
Marcus ! 



My lord. 



Come hither, my good Marcus. 
— -Now, by the God of battle, I shall weep. 
And shame my death at once, if thus you play 
The gul before me. Will you then betray 
Your emperor, now so many eyes look on ? 

SOLDIER. 

Oh ! my dear master. 



Marcus, you have laid 
A weight of gratitude upon my soul, 
Which it can ne'er shake off: yet be content. 
Old Marcus, that I now, in this great hour, 
Proclaim thee my good servant. — Look ! this chain 
Hath hung about me hke an amulet. 
For many seasons. Wear it near thy heart, 
As the last gift of .Tuhan. So, farewell. 
Fabricius, you have done your part to-day 
(And through the Persian war,) hke a true soldier : 
Live henceforth a centurion. Here is gold 
For thee ; and never in the after times 
Forget to interpose thy shield between 
A hot barbarian and thy living king : 
So hast thou done to-day. Before ye all 
I speak this of Fabricius : love him for it 



Farewell, centurion. Now, come hither, youth ; 
What is your name ? 

SOLDIER. 

'Tis Julian, my great lord. 



So then, my name-sake ! I am proud of you. 
Soldiers and friends, be sure, when I am gone, 
You shelter this young blossom of the war : 
Although he looks like Hylas, he can lift 
A spear like Mars. To-day I saw him strike 
A Persian to the ground, of twice his years ; 
A giant fellow, who perhaps had else 
Trampled me down (for I was bleeding fast,) 
And saved me so much talking. — Ah ! — 



You're pale. 
Come, bid the men farewell. Nay — 



I believe 
It must indeed be so. Farewell, my friends 
(All friends and noble soldiers,) fare ye well. 
May the Gods smile on ye, and victory 
Sit on your swords for ever. So, farewell. 

[Soldiers go out 
— Priscus and Maximus, is it not strange 
That I who but last evening (nay, by Mars, 
This very morn) was checked for my sad talk, 
By Anatolius, in a few short hours 
Should, in my turn, stifle the words of grief 
In others ? 

MAXIMUS. 

So it is. The mind is full 
Of curious changes that perplex itself. 
Just like the visible world ; and the heart ebbs 
Like the great sea, first flows, and then retires : 
And on the passions doth the spirit ride. 
Through sunshine and in rain, from good to ill, 
Then to deep vice, and so on back to virtue ; 
Till in the grave, that universal calm, 
We sleep the sleep eternal. 



You have not 
The wish to live hereafter, Maximus ; 
Or you would feel how poor to the Soul's eye 
Are these our earthly joys. If Death were sleep. 
Why should we dread to sleep, who often court 
A noon-day's slumber, and who bless the powei 
That gently on our eyelids lays his touch, 
In times of fever, tumult, grief, or pain? 
Oh ! is it thus that ye would bid me think, 
Now I am going from ye ? — Mighty Jove ! 
I do beseech thee, and thou, vahant Mars, 
My guardian God, look from your burning thrones 
Upon the fainting soul of Julian. 
Have I not loved and worshipped ye, and turn'd 
From other altars to bow down to yours. 
And will ye now desert me ? I do ask 
Now as I die, a word (I ask but one 
For all that I have done) to tell the world 
My faith was good. I ask ye — shall the grave 
Clip us for ever in its chilling arms — 
And are the stories of hereafter, fables ? 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



415 



Are there not pleasures and consuming pains, 

Endless or limited, for good and ill ? 

And dreams — enchantments for the eye and ear 

Of all who earn the rare Elysium ? 

And haunted Styx, where disembodied shapes 

Wander ; and Tartarus, that profounder gloom, 

Fill'd up with wretches who were their own 

slaves ? 
And Fate, and dark Alecto and her train. 
And Death, and Rhadamanthus, mighty judge. 
And the most drear dominion of the dead ? 

speak ! — a word, a glance, a gleam, to show me 
The world to come. — They sleep, or answer not. 
And yet will they move from their mighty rest, 
To hearken to my frail petitioning? 

1 cannot hope it. Priscus ! Maximus ! 
Farewell ; I faint ; my tongue is withered up. 

It clings against my mouth. Some air — air. Ah ! 
This is death, Priscus. Oh ! how like a child 
A soldier sinks before him. Jove ! [Dies, 



He faints. 



He does indeed, for ever : his last breath 
Ib mingled with the winds. 



AMELIA WENTWORTH. 



SCENE I. 

A Boom. 

Wentworth, Amelia. 

AMELIA. 

You have determined then on sending Charles 
To India? 



WENTWORTH. 



Yes. 



Poor boy ! he looks so sad and pale. 
He'll never live there. 'Tis a cruel lot 
At best, to leave the land that gave us birth 
And sheltered us for many a pleasant year, — 
The friends that loved us and the spots we loved. 
For such a distant country. He will die. 
Remember, — 'tis Amelia's prophecy. 
Oh ! do not be so harsh to the poor youth. 
Do not desert your better nature. Nay — 
You will not send him, Wentworth ? 



WENTWORTH. 



He will sail 



In twenty days. 



He shall not go. 



AMELIA. 

How can you be so cruel ? 

WENTWOKTH. 

Madam, you interest 



Yourself too much, methinks, for this young man. 
His doom is settled ; that be sure of. 



Sir! 

WENTWORTH. 

I say your tenderness, your — folly for 
This boy becomes you not. 

AMELIA. 

Away, away. 

WENTWORTH. 

Madam, while you are Godfrey Wentworth's 

wife. 
These tender friendships must be laid aside. 
Oh ! you can smile. By 



Mr. Wentworth, you 
(I must believe it) jest — you jest with me. 

WENTWORTH. 

Go on, go on : you think me quite a fool. 
Woman, my eyes are open, wide awake. 
To you, and all my infamy. By Heaven ! 
I will not be a bye-word and a mock 

In all the mouths of men, for any Pshaw ! 

I still respect your ears, you see ; I 



You 



Insult me. Sir. 



WENTWORTH. 

Forgive me : I indeed 
Am somewhat of a prude ; you'll scorn me for it. 
I still think women modest — in the mass. 



Sir — Mr. Wentworth — you have used me ill. 

Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot 

All — what is due to me — what to your wife. 

You have forgot — forgot — can / forget 

All that I sacrificed for you? — my youth. 

My home, my heart — (you know — you knew it 

then) 
In sad obedience to my father's word? 
You promised to that father (how you kept 
That promise, now remember) you would save 
His age from poverty : he had been bred 
In splendour, and he could not bow him down. 
Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune. 
He gave me up — a victim, and I saw 
Myself (ah! how I shudder' d) borne away 
By you, the Evil Angel of my life. 
To a portentous splendour. I became 
A pining bride, a wretch, — a slave to all 
Your host of passions ; but I swore (may God 
Forgive me!) to love you — you, when I loved 
Another, and you knew it : Yes, you knew 
My heart was given away, and yet you wed me. 
Leave me ! Sir. 

WENTWORTH. 

Have you done ? Woman, do you think 
This mummery is to work me from my purpose — 
My settled will. Mistress, I leave you now ; 



416 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



But this remember, that your minion — Oh ! 
I do not heed your frowning — your boy- love 
Will visit India shortly, or, it may be 
(You are his guide) a prison here, in England. 
Farewell. 



Yet stay — a word more ere we quit. 
I do beseech you (though my wrongs are great, 
And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this,) 
You take your malediction from this youth. 
He is an innocent — I think he's innocent 
Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am 
Too innocent to sue ; yet let me say, 
Since the sad hour I wed you I have been 
As faithful to our cold communion. 
As though my heart had from the first been yours, 
Or you been generous after. Once more, Sir, 
I would implore you, for your comfort — for 
Your honour, and my name, to spare this boy. 
In the calm tone of one who has not erred, 
I do require this of you. 

WENTWORTH. 

You but steel 
My heart against him. Woman, is your pleading 
Always as warm as now ? By earth and heaven ! 
Had I but wavered in his destiny 
This would have fixed me. Seek your chamber 

now, 
And in your meditations think how well 
Your name may sound {my name) held up to scorn. 
It may be worth your care. Thus long I've hid 
My wrath, and let you wander at your will. 
You have grown bold in guilt ; be prudent now : 
Save a fair name or I must tell the world , 
How ill you keep your secrets. 

[Exit Wentworth. 



He is gone. 
And I am here — oh ! such a weary wretch. 
Oh ! Father, Father, what a heart had you 
To cast me on the wide and bitter world. 
With such a friend as this ! I would have toiled 
From the pale morning till the dusk of night, 
And Uved as poorly, and smiled cheerfully, 
Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home. 
And there was one who would have loved you 

too. 
And aided vdth his all our wreck of fortune. 
You would not hear him ; — and, — and did / hear 
His passionate petitioning, and see 
His scalding tears, and fling myself away 
Upon a wintry bosom, that held years 
Doubling my own. What matters it ? — 'tis past. 
I will be still myself: Who's there ? 

Charles enters. 

CHARLES. 



'Tis I. 



You are in tears 1 



AMELIA. 

Away. Draw down the blinds. 
The summer evenings now come warmly on us. 
Go, pluck me yonder flower. 



This rose — mean you ? 
It fills the room with perfume : 'tis as red, 
As 

AMELIA. 

As Aurora's blushes, or my own. 
I see you want a simile. 

CHARLES. 

You are gay : 
Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here t 



No one ; I will not tell ; I've made a vow, 
And will not break it, 'till — until I'm pressed. 

CHARLES. 

Then let me press you. 

AMELIA. 

Silly boy, away. 
Go gather me more flowers, — violets. 

CHARLES. 

Here, let me place them in your hair. 

AMELIA. 

No, no. 

The violet is for poets : they are yours. 
O rare ! I like to see you bosom them. 
Had they been golden, such as poets earned, 
You might have treasured them. 

CHARLES. 

They are far more 
To me, — for they were yours, Amelia. 

AMELIA. 

Give me the rose. 

CHARLES. 

But where shall it be placed ? 

AMELIA. 

Why, in my hand — my hair. Look ! how it 

blushes, 
To see us both so idle. Give it me. 
Where ? where do ladies hide their favourite 

flowers. 
But in their bosoms, foolish youth. Away — 
'Tis I must do it. Pshaw ! how sad you look, 
And how you tremble. 

CHARLES. 

Dear Amelia. 

AMELIA. 

Call me your mother, Charles. 

CHARLES. 

My Guardian 

AMELIA. 

Ah ! name him not to me. Charles, I have been 
Jesting a while ; but my dark husband's frown 
Comes like a cloud upon me. You must go 
Far, my dear Charles, from the one friend w^o 

loves you : 
To Hindostan. 



DRAMATIC SCENES, 



417 



CHAKLES. 

I know it. 

AMELIA. 

For myself, 
I shall think of you often, my dear Charles. 
Think of me sometimes. When your trumpet 

sounds, 
You'll recollect the coward you knew once, 
Over the seas in England? 



Spare my heart ! 

AMELIA. 

I do not think you have a heart : 'tis buried. 



Amelia, Oh ! Amelia, will you never 

Know the poor heart that breaks and bursts for 

you ? 
Oh ! do not take it ill : but now believe 
How fond, and true, and faithful ■ 

AMELIA. 

Is this jest ? 
You act well, Sir, or — but if it be true. 
Then what am I ? 



Oh ! by these burning tears ; 
By all my haunted days and wakeful nights, 
Oh! by yourself I swear, dearest of all, 
I love — love you, my own Amelia I 
Once I will call you so. Do — do not scorn me, 
And blight my youtli — I do not ask for love , 
I dare not. Trample not upon my heart. 
My untouched heart, I gave it all to you : 
Without a spot of care or sorrow on it. 
My spirit became yours — I worshipped you, 
And for your sake in silence. Say but once 
You hate me not, for this — Speak, speak I 



Alas! 



Weep not for me, my gentle love. You said 
Your husband threaten'd you. Come, then, to 

me ; 
I have a shelter and a heart for you, 
Where, ever and for ever you shall reign. 
Amelia, dear Amelia! Speak a word 
Of kindness and consenting to me — Speak i 
If but a word, or though it be not kindness : 
Speak hope, doubt, fear, — but no despair ; or say 
That some day you may love, or that if ever 
Your cruel husband dies you'll think of me, 
Or that you wish me happy, — or that perhaps 
Your heart — nay speak to me, Amelia. 

AMELIA. 

la then your love so deep ? 



So deep ? It is 
Twined with my life : it is my life — my food — 
53 



The natural element wherein I breathe — 
My madness — my heart's madness — it is all. 
— Oh ! what a picture have I raised upon 
My sandy wishes. I have thought at times 
That you and I in some far distant country 
Might live together, blessing and beloved : 
And I have shaped such plans of happiness, 
For us and all around us (you indeed 
Ever the sweet superior spirit there, — 
That were you always.) — Fair Amelia, 
You listen with a melancholy smile ? 



Let me hear all ; 
Alas ! Alas ! 



'tis fit I should hear all. 



Weep not for me, my love. 
I — I am nought ; not worth a single tear : 
I will depart — or may I kiss away 
Those drops of rain ? Well, well, I will not pain 

you. 
And yet — Oh ! what a paradise is love : 
Secure, requited love. I will not go : 
Or we will go together. There are haunts 
For young and happy spirits : You and I 
Will thither fly, and dwell beside some stream 
That runs in music 'neath the Indian suns ; 
Ay, some sweet island still shall be our home. 
Where fruits and flowers are born through all the 

year. 
And Summer, Autumn, Spring, are ever young. 
Where Winter comes not, and where nought 

abides 
But Nature in her beauty revelling. 
You shall be happy, sweet AmeHa, 
At last, and I — it is too much to think of. 
Forgive me while I look upon thee now. 
And swear to thee by Love, and Night, and ail 
The gliding hours of soft and starry Night, 
How much — how absolutely I am thine. 
My pale and gentle beauty — what a heart 
Had he to wrong thee, or upbraid thee ! He 
Was guilty — nay, nay : look not so, 



I have 
Been guilty of a cruel act toward you. 
Charles, I indeed am guilty. When to-day 
My husband menaced me, and told me of 
Public and broad disgrace, it met my scorn : 
But have I, my poor youth, been so unkind 
To you, as not to see this — love before ? 
Charles, I have driven you from your early home ; 
I see it now: I only — hate me for it. 



I'll love you, hke bright Heaven. The fked 

stars 
Shall never be so constant. I am all 
Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave, 
Not the cold hollow grave shall chill my love : 
It will survive beyond the bounds of death, 
The spirit of the shadow which may there 
Perhaps do penance for my deeds of ill. 



Stay this wild talk. 



418 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Men have been known to love 
Through years of absence, ay, in pain and peril, 
And one did cast life and a world away, 
For a loose woman's smile : nay. Love has dwelt, 
A sweet inhabitant, in a daemon's breast, 
Lonely, amidst bad passions ; burning there, 
Like a most holy and sepulchral light. 
And almost hallowing its dark tenement. 
Why may not I 



I thought I heard a step. 
How strangly you speak now — again, again. 
Leave me ; quick, leave me. 

CHARLES. 

' Tis your tyrant coming : 
Fly rather you. 

AMELIA. 

If you have pity, go. 

CHARLES. 

Farewell then : yet, should he repulse you — 



I vpill — ^but go : you torture me. 

CHARLES. 

I am gone. 



Then 



[Exit. 



Farewell, farewell, poor youth ; so desolate. 
That even I can spare a tear for you. 
— My husband comes not : I will meet him, then, 
Armed in my innocence and wrongs. Alas! 
'Tis hard to suffer where we ought to judge, 
And pray to those who should petition us. 
'Tis a brave world, I see. Power and wrong 
Go hand in hand, resistless and abhorred, 
And patient virtue, and pale modesty. 
Like the sad flowers of,the too early spring, 
Are cropped before they blossom — or trod down, 
Or by the fierce winds withered. Is it so ? — 
But I have flaunted in the sun, and cast 
My smiles in prodigality away : 
And now, and now — no matter. I have done. 
Whether I live scorned or beloved — Beloved ! 
Better be hated, could my pride abate, 
And I consent to fly. It may be thus. 



SCENE II, 

A considerable period of time is supposed to have 
elapsed between this and the preceding Scene. 

A Chamber. Night. 

Amelia, Marian. 

MARIAN. 

Are you awake, dear lady ? 

AMELIA. 

Wide awake. 



There are the stars abroad, I see. — I feel 
As though I had been sleeping many a day. 
What time o' the night is it ? 



Of midnight. 



MARIAN. 

About the stroke 



AMELIA. 

Let it come. The skies are calm 
And bright ; and so, at last, my spirit is. 
Whether the Heavens have influence on the 

mind 
Through life or only in our days of death, 
I know not ; yet, before, ne'er did my soul 
Look upwards with such hope of joy, or pine 
For that hope's deep completion. Marian ! 
Let me see more of Heaven. There — enough. 
Are you not well, sweet girl? 



Oh ! yes : but you 
Speak now so strangely : you were wont to talk 
Of plain familiar things, and cheer me : now 
You set my spirit drooping. 



I have spoke 
Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl. 
Look, look ! above : — the canopy of the sky, 
Spotted with stars, shines hke a bridal dress : 
A queen might envy that so regal blue 
Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas ! 
I do remember in my follying days 
What wild and wanton wishes once were mine, 
Slaves — ^radiant gems — and beauty with no peer. 
And friends (a ready host) — but I forget, 
I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt, 
When I had hope to light me. Have you no song, 
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear ? 
There's one I've heard you sing. " They said 

his eye" — 
No, that's not it : the words are hard to hit. 
" His eye hke the mid-day sun was bright" — 

MARIAN. 

'Tis«o. 
You've a good memory. Well, listen to me, 
I must not trip, I see. 

AMELIA. 

I hearken. Now. 

SONG. 
His eye like the mid-day sun was bright. 
Hers had a proud but milder light. 
Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon • 
Alas ! and must it fade as soon ? 

His voice was like the breath of war. 
But hers was fainter, softer far ; 
And yet when he of his long love sighed, 
She laughed in scorn — he fled, and died. 



There is another verse, of a different air. 

But indistinct — like the low moaning 

Of summer winds in the evening : Thus it roDa: 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



419 



They said he died upon the wave, 

And his bed was the wild and bounding billow 
Her bed shall be a dry earth grave : 

Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow. 



How slowly and how silently doth Time 
Float on his starry journey ! Still he goes, 
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away. 
He rises with the golden morning, calmly, 
And with the moon at night. Methinks, I see 
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings, 
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men. 
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath. 
Lo ! I am here, and Time seems passing on : 
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing — 
Yet he will still be here ; and the blue Hours 
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world, 
As though I were alive to welcome them. 
There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles ! 

Chari.es enters. 



Did you not call ? 



I am here. 



You come in time. My thoughts 
Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother 

(now 
I take that title,) in her dying hour 
Has privilege to speak unto your youth. 
There's one thing pains me : and I would be calm. 
My husband has been harsh unto me, — yet 
— He is my husband ; and you'll think of this : 
If any sterner feeling move your heart ? 
Seek no revenge for me. You will not ? — nay. 
Is it so hard to grant my last request ? 
He is my husband : he was father, too, 
Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once. 
Do you remember how his eye-lids closed 
When the first summer rose was opening? 
'Tis now two years ago — more, more : and I — 
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy ! 
He was my only child. How fair he looked 
In the white garment that encircled him — 
'Twas hke a marble slumber ; and when we 
Laid him beneath the green earth, in his bed, 
I thought my heart was breaking — yet I lived : 
But I am weary now. 

MAKIAN. 

You must not talk, 
Indeed, dear lady : nay — 

CHARLES. 

Indeed you must not. 

AMELIA. 

Well then, I will be silent : yet not so. 
For ere we journey ever should we take 
A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well, 
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind 
Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles, 
Wear the remembrance of Amelia. 
She ever loved you, — ever : so as might 
Become a mother's tender love, — no more. 
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world 



Now almost thirty seasons : you have been 

A child to me for one third of that time. 

I took you to my bogom, when a boy, 

Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth 

and vanish. 
You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base 

crowd 
Will feed upon it, if— but you must make 
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep 
Its young and beautiful feelings. 



All that you wish- 
And leave me. 



CHARLES. 

I will do 
-all ; but you cannot die 



You shall see how calmly Death 
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale, 
On my now smiling lip : These eyes men swore 
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky. 
And yet they must grow dim : an hour — 

CHARLES. 

Oh ! no. 

No, no : oh ! say not so. I cannot bear 

To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart f 



No : I would caution it against a change, 
That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk. 
When I am dead — 

CHARLES. 

Alas, alas ! 

AMELIA. 

This is 
Not as I wish : You had a braver spirit : 
Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk 
Of war and danger — Ah ! — 

Wentworth enters. 

MARIAN. 

She's pale — speak, speaks 



CHARLES. 

Oh! my lost mother. — How !- 



-You here ? 



WE.NTWORTH. 

I am come 
To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand. 
Amelia ! she faints ! Amelia ! [She dies. 

Poor faded girl ! I was too harsh — unjust. 



Look! 



She has left us. 

CHARLES. 

It is false. 
Mother, revive, revive ! 



Revive ! 



MARIAN. 



It i§„i»'fain. 



Is it then so ? — My soul is sick and faint. 



420 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



Oh ! mother, mother. I — I cannot weep. 
Oh ! for some bhnding tears to dim my eyes, 
So I might not gaze on her — And has Death 
Indeed, indeed struck her, — so beautiful ? 
So wronged, and never erring ; so beloved 
By one — who now has nothing left to love. 
Oh ! thou bright Heaven, if thou art calling now 
Thy brighter angels to thy bosom — rest. 
For to ! the brightest of thy host is gone — 
Departed, — and the earth is dark below, 
— And now, — I'll wander far and far away, 
Like one that hath no country. I shall find 
A sullen pleasure in that life, and when 
I say ' I have no friend in all the world,' 
My heart will swell with pride, and make a show 
Unto itself of happiness ; and in truth 
There is, in that same solitude, a taste 
Of pleasure which the social never know. 
— From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger, 
And, as the body gains a braver look 
By staring in the face of all the winds, 
So from the sad aspect of different things 
My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up 
Against the past. — And now — for Hindostan. 



THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE. 



This scene is written in imitation of, rather than in 
strict conformity to, the mode originated by the Greek 
Tragic writers. 



SCENE. 
The Vale of Enna. 

PeOSERPINE, ViRfflNS. 
PROSERPINE. 

'Now come and sit around me. 
And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each 
What most becomes her beauty. What a vale 
Is this of Enna I Every thing that comes 
From the green earth, springs here more gra- 
ciously ; 
And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now 
Than it was wont, even in Sicily. 
My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart 
In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted 
By some delicious passion. Look ! above. 
Above — how nobly through the cloudless sky 
The great Apollo goes ! — Jove's radiant son — 
My father's son: and here, below, the bosom 
Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers. 
Who could be sad to-day ! Come round, and cast 
Each one her odorous heap from out her lap. 
Into one pile. Some we'll divide among us, 
And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours ; 
So may Aurora's path become more fair. 
And we be blest in giving. 

Here, this rose 
(This one half blown) shall be my Maia's portion, 
For that like it her blush is beautiful : 



And this deep violet, almost as blue 
As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycemnia, 
I'll give to thee; for hke thyself it wears 
Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily, 
Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast ? 
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed. 
If flowers have sense for envy : — It shall lie 
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, 
Like one star on the bosom of the night. 
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose, — they 
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves; 
And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice 
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths. 
The dirge of those young children of the year. 
But here is heart' s-ease for your woes. And now, 
The honey-suckle flowers I give to thee. 
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane : 
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou 
Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow ; 
It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou 

dost; 
And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree, 
The woodbine too must perish. — Hark ! what 

sound ? — 
Do ye see aught I 



Behold, behold, Proserpina ! 

Dark clouds from out the earth arise. 

And wing their way towards the skies, 

As they would veil the burning blush of day. 
And, look I upon a rolling car. 
Some fearful being from afar 
Comes onward. As he moves along the ground, 
A dull and subterranean sound 
Companions him ; and from his face doth shine, 
Proclaiming him divine, 
A light that darkens all the vale around. 

SEMiCHORUS {Cyane.) 
'Tis he, 'tis he : he comes to us 
From the depths of Tartarus. 
For what of evil doth he roam 
From his red and gloomy home, 
In the centre of the world, 
Where all the sinful dead are hurled ? 
Mark him as he moves along. 
Drawn by horses black and strong. 
Such as may belong to Night 
Ere she takes her morning flight. 
Now the chariot stops : the god 
On our grassy world hath trod : 
Like a Titan steppeth he. 
Yet full of his divinity. 
On his mighty shoulders he 
Raven locks, and in his eye 
A cruel beauty, s«ch as none 
Of us may wisely look upon. 

PROSERPINE. 

He comes, indeed. How like a god he looks — 
Terribly lovely ! Shall I shun his eye 
Which even here looks brightly beautiful ? 
What a wild leopard glance he has ! — I am 
Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly ? 
I will not: yet, methinks, I fear to stay. 
Come, let us go, Cyane. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



431 



Pluto enters. 



Stay, oh ! stay. 
Proserpina, Proserpina, I come 
From my Tartarian kingdom to behold you. 
The brother of Jove am I. I come to say 
Gently, beside this blue Sicihan stream. 
How much I love you, fair Proserpina. 
Think me not rude that thus at once I tell 
My passion. I disarm me of all power ; 
And in the accents of a man I sue. 
Bowing before your beauty. Brightest maid ! 
Let me — still unpresuming — say I have 
Roamed through the earth, where many an eye 

hath smiled 
In love upon me, though it knew me not ; 
But I have passed free from amongst them all. 
To gaze on you alone. I might have clasp'd 
Lovely and royal maids, and throned queens, 
Sea-nymphs, and airy shapes that glide along 
Like light across the hills, or those that make 
Mysterious music in the desert woods. 
Or lend a voice to fountains or to caves. 
Or answering hush the river's sweet reproach — 
Oh ! I've escaped from ail, to come and tell 
How much I love you, sweet Proserpina. 

SEMiCHOKUS iCyane.) 
Come with me, away, away, 
Fair and young Proserpina. 
You will die unless you flee 
Child of crowned Cybele. 
Think of all your Mother's love. 
Of every stream and pleasant grove 
That you must for ever leave, 
If the dark king you believe. 
Think not of his eyes of fire. 
Nor his wily heart's desire, 
Nor the locks that round his head 
Run like wreathed snakes, and fling 
A shadow o'er his eyes glancing; 
Nor the dangerous whispers hung, 
Like honey, roofing o'er his tongue. 
But think of all thy Mother's glory — 
Of her love — of every story 
Of the cruel Pluto told, 
And which grey tradition old, 
With all its weight of grief and crime 
Hath plucked from out the grave of Time. 
Once again I bid thee flee. 
Daughter of great Cybele. 

PROSERPINE. 

You are too harsh, Cyane. 



Oh ! my love, 
Fairer than the white Naiad — Fairer far 
Than aught on earth, and fair as aught in heaven: 
Hear me, Proserpina! 

PROSERPINE. 

Away, away ! 
I'll not believe you. What a cunning tongue 
He has, Cyane ! has he not ? — Away. 
Can the gods flatter ? 



By my burning throne ! 
I love you, sweetest : I will make you queen 
Of my great kingdom. One third of the world 
Shall you reign over, my Proserpina ; 
And you shall rank as high as any she, 
Save one, within the starry court of Jove. 



PROSERPINE. 



Will you be true ? 



PLUTO. 



I swear it. By myself!— 
Come then, my bride. 



PROSERPINE. 



Speak thou again, my friend. 
Speak, harsh Cyane, in a harsher voice. 
And bid me not believe him. Ah ! you droop 
Your head in silence. 



Come, my brightest queen! 
Come, beautiful Proserpina, and see 
The regions over which your husband reigns; 
His palaces, and radiant treasures, which 
Mock and outstrip all fable ; his great power. 
Which the living own, and wandering ghosts 

obey, 
And all the elements. — Oh ! you shall sit 
On my illuminated throne, and be 
A queen indeed ; and round your forehead shaH 

run 
Circlets of gems, as bright as those which bind 
The brows of Juno on Heav'n's festal nights. 
When all the Gods assemble, and bend down 
In homage before Jove. — 

PROSERPINE. 

Speak out, Cyane ! 



But, above all, in my heart shall you reign 
Supreme, a goddess and a Queen indeed. 
Without a rival. Oh ! and you shall share 
My subterranean pov.'er, and sport upon 
The fields Elysian, where, 'midst softest sounds, 
And odours springing from immortal flowers. 
And mazy rivers, and eternal groves 
Of bloom and beauty the good spirits walk: 
And you shall take your station in the skies 
Nearest the queen of Heaven, and with her hold 
Celestial talk, and meet Jove's tender smile, 
So beautiful 

PROSERPINE. 

Away, away, away ! 
Nothing but force shall ever — Oh I tway. 
I'll not beheve — Fool that I am to smile ! 
Come round me, virgins. Am I then betrayed? 
fraudful king ! 



No, by this kiss, and this : 
I am your own, my love ; and you are mine 
For ever and for ever. — Weep Cyane. 



422 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



They are gone afar — afar, 
Like the shooting of a star : 
See, — their chariot fades away. 
Farewell, lost Proserpina. 

{Cyane is gradually transformed.) 

But, ah ! what frightful change is liere ? 
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear ! 
We call thee — vainly. — On the ground 
She sinks, without a single sound. 
And all her garments float around. 
Again, again, she rises, — light; 
Her head is like a fountain bright, 
And her glossy ringlets fall. 
With a murmur musical, 
O'er her shoulders, like a river 
That rtlshes and escapes for ever. 
— Is the fair Cyane gone ? 
And is this fountain left alone 
For a sad remembrance, where 
We may in after-times repair. 
With heavy heart, and weeping eye, 
To sing songs to her memory ? 

Oh ! then farewell : and now with hearts that 

mourn 
Deeply, to Dian's temple will we go : 
But ever on this day we will return, 
Constant to mark Cyane's fountain flow: 
And haply, — for among us who can know 
The secrets written on the scrolls of Fate, 
A day may come, when we may cease our woe ; 
And she, redeem'd at last from Pluto's hate, 
Rise in her beauty old, pure, and regenerate. 



THE FALCON. 



Frederigo, of the Alberiglii family, loved a gentle- 
woman, and was not requited with like love again. 
But, by bountiful expenses, and over liberal invita- 
tions, he wasted all his lands and goods, having nothing 
left him but a Hawk or Fanlcon. His unkind mistress 
happeneth to come to visit him, and he not having any 
other food for her dinner, made her a dainty dish of his 
Faulcon for her to feed on. Being conquered by this 
exceeding kind courtesie, she changed her former 
hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in 
marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions. 
Boccaccio. (OM tronstoion.) Fifth day : Novel 9. 



SCENE I. 

Outside of a Cottage. Sunset. 

FREDERi&o {alone.) 

Oh ! poverty. And have I' learnt at last 
Thy bitter lesson ? Thou forbidding thing. 
That hath such sway upon this goodly earth. 
Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter, 
What have I done that thou shouldst press me 

thus? 
Let me not say how I did bear me in 



Prosperity ; much of the good we do 
Lies in its secret — but away witli this, 
For here are skiey themes to dwell upon. 
— Now do I i'eel ni-y spirit hath not quite 
Sunk with my fortunes. — 'Tis the set of Sunt' 
How like a hero who hath run his course 
In glory, doth he die ! His parting smile 
Hath somewhat holy in it, and doth stir 
Regret, but soft and unallied to pain, 
To see him quietly sink and sink away, 
Until on yonder western mountain's top 
Lingering he rests at last, and leaves a look 
More beautiful than e'er he shed before : 
A parting present, felt by all that loved 
And flourished in his warm creative ^ile. 
Nor unattended does he quit the world, 
For there's a stillness in this golden hour 
Observable by all ; the birds that trill'd, 
And shook their ruffled plumes for joy to see 
His coming in the morning, sing no mores 
Or if a solitary note be heard, 
Or the deep lowing of the distant beast, 
'Tis but to mark the silence. Like to this, 
In the great city the cathedral clock 
Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay 
Time for a moment, while it calls aloud 
To student's or to sick man's watchful ear, 
" Now goes the midnight." Then, I love 

walk. 
And, heark'ning to the Church memorial, deem 
That sometimes it may sound a different tale, 
And upwards to the stars and mighty moon 
Send hollow tidings from this dreaming world, 
Proclaiming all below as calm as they. 
The sunlight changes, and the tints are now 
Darkened to purple. Ha ! a step : who's there? 
A Lady — Giana I 

GiANA and her Maid enter. 



to 



Yes, Sir 
Have cause to be surprised. 



you 



FKEDERIGO. 

Not so, dear lady } 
Honour'd I own that my poor dwelling should 
Receive so fair a guest. 



Past times. 



GIANA. 

You do forget 

FREDERIGO. 



No, Madam, no; those times still live 
Like blossomings of the memory, kept apart 
For holier hours, and shelter'd from the gaze 
Of rude uncivil strangers ; and — and they 
Are now my only comfort ; so lest they 
Should fade, I use 'em gently, very gently, 
And water 'em all with tears. 

GIANA. 

Your poverty 
Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo. 

FREDERIGO. 

Pardon me. Madam : 'twas not well, indeed, 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



423 



To meet a guest like you with sorrow : you 
Were born for happiness. 

GIANA. 

Alas ! I fear not. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! yes, yes : and you well become it, well. 
May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours 
Weigh on so light a heart. 



Light means unfeeUng. 



You well reprove me : 



FEEDERIGO. 

Yet I meant not so, 
Giana ! let me perish by your hate 
If ever I reproach you : what am I, 
Struck by misfortune, and the chilling touch 
Of Poverty, an outcast from my fortunes. 
Lavish'd and lost by folly — 

GIA.NA. 

'Twas for me. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! no, no: I had many faults whereof 
The burthen rests with me : then what am I, 
That I should dare reproach you ? think no more 

on't: 
Know me your truest servant, only that, 
And bound to live and die for you. 



But let's enjoy the present. 



No more, 



3HA.ID. 

My Lady, sir, 
le come to feast with you. 

GIANA. 

'Tis even so. 

FREDERIGO. 

I am too honour'd: Can you then put up 
With my (so poor a) welcoming ? If the heart 
Indeed could lavisli entertainment, I 
Would feast you like a queen : but, as it is. 
You will interpret kindly ? 

GIANA. 

Oh ! I come 
To grace a bachelor's table ; that is never 
Stored but with common viands. Now we'll 

go, 
And rest us in your orchard, Signior : 
The evening breezes must be pleasant there ; 
So, for an hour, farewell. 

FREDERIGO. 

Farewell, dear Madam : 
I hope you'll find there some — ah I 'ware the 
step. 

GIANA. 

'Tis but an awkward entrance, Sir, indeed. 



FREDERIGO. 

You'll find some books in the arbour, on the shelf, 
Half hid by wandering honeysuckle : they 
Are books of poetry. If I remember, 
You loved such stories once, thinking they 

brought 
Man to a true and fine humanity, 
Though silly folks are wont to jeer them, now. 



You've a good memory, Signior. That must be— 
Stay, let me count : ay, some six years ago. 



About the time. 



FREDERIGO. 
GIANA. 

You were thought heir, by many, 
Then, to the Count Filippo : you displeased him : 
How was't? 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! some mere trifle : I forget. 

GIANA. 

Nay, tell me ; for some said you were ungrateful. 

FREDERIGO. 

I could not marry to his wish. 

GIANA. 

Was it so ? 

FREDERIGO. 

Thus simply : nothing more, believe it. 

^ GIANA. 

I knew ndt this before. Adieu ! [Exit, 

FREDERIGO. 

She comes to dine — to dine with me, who am 
A beggar. Now, what shall I do to give 
My Idol entertainment ? not a coin : 
Not one, by Heav'n, and not a friend to lend 
The veriest trifle to a wretch like me. 
And she's descended from her pride too — no ; 
No, no, she had no pride. — ^Now if I give 
Excusings, she will think I'm poor indeed, 
And say misfortune starved the spirit hence 
Of an Italian gentleman. No more : 
She must be feasted. Ha! no, no, no, no. 
Not that way : Any way but that. Bianca ! 

Enter Bianca. 

This Lady comes to feast. 

BIANCA. 

On what. Sir ? There 
Is scarce a morsel : fruits perhaps— • 

FREDERIGO. 

Then I 
Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air. 

BIANCA. 

Impossible : there is no time. Old Mars,, vou 

know. 
Frights every bird away. 



424 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



I FREDEKIGO. 

Ah I villain, 
Shall die for't ; bring him hither. 



BIANCA. 



Sir! 



The falcon ? 



FREDERIGO. 

Ay, that murderous kite. How oft 
Hath he slain innocent birds : now he shall die. 
'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital : 
And he for once shall do me service — Once ! 
Hath he not done it oft ? no matter : Now 
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen 
Worthily. 

BIANCA. 

He is here, sir. 

REDEKIGO. 

Where ? vile bird, 
There — I'll not look at him. 

BIANCA. 

Alas! he's dead: 
Look, look ! ah ! how he shivers. 

FREDERIGO. 

Fool ! Begone. 
Fool ! am not I a fool — a selfish slave ? 
I am, I am. One look : ah ! there he lies. 
By heav'n, he looks reproachingly ; and yet 
I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence. 

[BiANCA exit. 
Mars ! my brave bird, and have I kill'd thee, 

then. 
Who was the truest servant — fed me, loved. 
When all the world had left me ?— Never more 
Shall thou and I in mimic battle play. 
Nor thou pretend to die (to die, alas !) 
And with thy quaint and frolic tricks delight 
Thy master in his solitude. No more, 
No more, old Mars ! (thou wast the god 

birds) 
Shah thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing, 
And hunt the air for plunder : thou couldst 

ride. 
None better, on the fierce and mountain winds 
When birds of lesser courage droop'd. I've 

seen 
Thee scare the wandering eagle on his way, 
(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods 
Knew thee and shunn'd thy beak,) and through 

the air 
Float hke a hovering tempest, fear'd by all. 
Have I not known thee bring the wild swan 

down 
For me, thy cruel master: ay, and stop 
The screaming vulture in the middle air. 
And mar his scarlet plumage — all for me. 
Who kill'd thee — murdered thee, poor bird ; for 

thou 
Wast worthy of humanity, and I 
Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done 
A crime against my race. 



of 



SCENE II. 

A Room. 

Frederigo. Giana. 

GIANA. 

You think it strange that I should visit you ? 

FREDERIGO. 

No, Madam, no. 

GIANA. 

You must: ev'n I myself 
(Yet I've a cause) must own the visit strange. 

FREDERIGO. 

I am most grateful for it. 

GIANA. 

Hear me, first. 
What think you brought me hither ? I've a suit 
That presses, and I look to you to grant it. 

FREDERIGO. 

'Tis but to name it, for you may command 
My fullest service. Oh ! but you know this : 
You injure when you doubt me. 

GIANA. 

That I think : 
So, to my errand. Gentle Signior, listen. 
I have a child : no mother ever loved 
A son so much : but that you know him, I 
Would say how fair he was, how delicate : 
But oh ! I need not tell his sweet ways to you : 
You know him, Signior, and your heart would 

grieve, 
I feel't, if you should see the poor child die. 
And now he's very ill. If you could hear 
How he asks after you, and says he loves you 
Next to his mother, Signior — 

FREDERIGO, 

Stay your tears. 
Can I do aught to serve your pretty boy? 
I love him as my own. 

GIANA. 

Sir? 

FREDERIGO. 

I forget. 
And yet I love him, lady : does that ask 
Forgiveness ? Is my love — 

GIANA. 

Now you mistake me, 
I thank you for your love. 

FREDERIGO. 

Giana ! How ! 

GIANA. 

To my poor child : he pines and wastes away, 
There is but one thing in the world he sighs for, 
And that — I cannot name it. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



425 



FREDERIGO. 

Is it mine ? 

GIANA. 

It is, it is : I shame to ask it, but 
What can a mother do ? 

FREDERIGO. 

'Tis yours, Griaaa: 
Ay, though it be my head. 

GIANA. 

It is — the falcon. 
Ah : pardon me : I see how dear the bird 
Is to you, and I know how little I 
Have right to ask it. Pardon me. 



FREDERIGO. 



I do, from — from my soul. 



Alas! 



I feel my folly. 
You shall not part with your poor faithfiil friend. 
No more of it : I was cruel to request it. 
Signior, I will not take it, for the world. 
I will not rob you, sir. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! that you could : 
Poor Mars ! Your child, madam, will grieve to 

hear 
His poor old friend is dead. 

GIANA. 

Impossible. 
I saw it as I entered. 

FREDERIGO. 

It is dead. 
Be satisfied, dear madam, that I say it : 
The bird is dead. 

GIANA. 

Nay, this is not hke you. 
I do not need excuses. 

FREDERIGO. 

Gracious lady. 
Believe me not so poor : the bird is dead. 
Nay then, you doubt me still, I see. Then hsten. 
Madam, you came to visit me — to feast-. 
It was my barest hour of poverty. 
I had not one poor coin to purchase food. 
Could I for shame confess this unto you ? 
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved 
Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign 
To smile on one whom all the world abandoned. 
Once I had been her lover, how sincere 
Let me not say : my name was high and princely : 
My nature had not quite forgot its habits : 
I loved you still : I felt it — Could I stoop 
And say how low and abject was my fortune, 
And send you fasting home? Your servant 

would 
Have scorn'd me. Lady, even then I swore 
That I would feast you daintily ; I did. 
54 



My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish 
Which Juno might have tasted. 



What is this ? 

FREDERIGO. 

We have feasted on that matchless bird, to which 
The fabulous Phoenix would have bow'd. Brave 

bird ! 
He has redeem' d my credit, 

GIANA {after a pause.) 

You have done 
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er 
Forget it, may I not know happiness. 
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind. 
And such as in an hour of pain or peril 
Methinks I could repose on. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh! Giana! 

GIANA. 

I have a child who loves you : for his mother, 
You've work'd a way into her inmost heart. 
Can she requite you ? 

FREDERIGO. 

How ! what mean you ? Oh ! 
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise 
My WT-etched heart so high, too high, lest it 
Break on its falling. 



But it shall not fall. 
If I can prop it, or my hand requite 
Your long and often tried fidehty. 
I come, Frederigo, not as young girls do. 
To blush and prettily affect to doubt 
The heart I know to be my own. I feel 
That you have loved me well. Forgive me now. 
That circumstance, which some day I'll make 

known. 

Kept me aloof so long. My nature is 
Not hard, although it might seem thus to you. 



What can I say ? 



FREDERIGO. 



GIANA. 

Nothing. I read your heart. 

FREDERIGO. 



It bursts, my love : but 'tis with joy, with joy. 
Giana ! my Giana ! we will have 
Nothing but halcyon days : Oh ! we will live 
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets. 
And gaily as the summer fly, but vnser: 
I'll be thy servant ever ; yet not so. 
Oh! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be 
Thy Sun of life, faithful through every season 
And thou shalt be my flower perennial. 
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose, 
My passion-flower, and I will wear thee on 
My heart, and thou shalt never, never fade. 
I'll love thee mightily, my queen, and in 
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest 
With music sweeter than the wild birds' song; 



426 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars 
(They are, they are, but softer,) and thy shape 
Fine as the vaunted nymphs' who, poets feign'd, 
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady. 
My gentle deity ! I'll crown thee with 
The whitest lilies, and then bow me down, 
Love's own idolater, and worship thee. 
And thou wilt then be mine? My love, my 

love ! 
How fondly will we pass our lives together ; 
And wander, heart-link'd, through the busy 

world 
Like birds in eastern story. 

GIANA. 

Oh ! you rave. 

FEEDERIGO. 

I'll be a miser of thee ; watch thee ever ; 
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night. 
We will have clocks that with their silver chime 
Shall measure out the moments : and I'll mark 
The time, and keep Love's pleasant calendar. 
To-day I'll note a smile : to-morrow how 
Your bright eyes spoke — how saucily, and then 
Record a kiss pluck' d from your currant lip. 
And say how long 'twas taking : then thy voice. 
As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds 
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls 
On serenader's moonht instrument — 
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be 
My household goddess — nay smile not, nor shake 
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous : 
I swear it shall be so : it shall, my love. 

GHANA. 

Why, now thou'rt mad indeed : mad. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! not so. 
There was a statuary once, who loved 
And worshipped the white marble that he shaped : 
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen. 
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity, 
Touch'd the pale stone with life, and it became 
At last Pygmalion's bride ; but thee— on whom 
Nature had lavish' d all her wealth before, 
Now love has touch'd with beauty : doubly fit 
For human worship thou, thou — let me pause, 
My breath is gone. 

GIANA. 

With talking. 

FREDERIGO. 

With delight. 
But I may worship thee in silence still. 

GIANA. 

The evening's dark. Now I must go ; farewell 
Until to-morrow. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh ! not yet, not yet. 
Behold ! the moon is up, the bright-eyed moon, 
And seems to shed her soft delicious light 
On lovers re-united. Why, she smiles ! 
And bids you tarry : will you disobey 
The Lady of the Sky ? beware. 



GIANA. 

Farewell. 

Nay, nay, I must go. 

FREDERIGO. 

We will go together. 

GIANA. 

It must not be to-night : my servants wait 
My coming at the fisher's cottage. 



FREDERIGO. 



Yet 



A few more words, and then I'll part with thee, 

For one long night : to-morrow bid me come 

(Thou hast already with thine eyes) and bring 

My load of love, and lay it at thy feet. 

— Oh ! ever while those floating orbs look bright 

Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light. 

Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower 

Did watch the stars, and then assert their power 

Throughout the world : so, dear Giana, I 

Will vindicate my own idolatry. 

And in the beauty and the spell that lies 

In the dark azure of thy love-lit eyes ; 

In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside, 

Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide. 

And in thy polish' d forehead, and thy hair 

Heap'd in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair ; 

In thy calm dignity ; thy modest sense ; 

In thy most soft and winning eloquence ; 

In woman's gentleness and love (now bent 

On me, so poor) shall lie my argument. 



TARTARUS, 



Di, quibus imperium est animarum,TJmbr8eque silentefl, 
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte tacentia late, 
Sit mihi fas audita loqui ; sit, numine vestro, 
Panders res alta terra et caligine mersas. 



SCENE. 

The first regio7i of Tartarus is seen. In the dis- 
tance are the four rivers ; and nearer, just vi- 
sible through the gloom, are the Monsters asleep. 
A Spirit of Death is watching. 

SPIRIT. 

He lingers. Is the Sibyl's spell so weak ? 

Or doth the haunted darkness breed great fears, 

Which shake his manhood ? — Hark 1 our Furies 

howl , 
Lock'd in Avernus, deep, lest their snaked hair 
Should hiss strange terror ; and grim Charon lies 
Palsied by charms, and dumb ; and there the wild 
Flame-breathing Hydra, and the brood of Dreams 
(All chained to pillars of Tartarean black) 
Lie still, — save some, let loose to point the path 
Which skirts Cocytus' shore, and give the 

stranger 
Welcome from Proserpine, — our Queen. Hark ! 

—No: 
'Tis but the lazy Styx, whose muttering waves 



DRAMATIC SCENES 



'427 



(Sadder than silence) to the populous strand 
Talk till the ghosts are moved. Again ! — Away, 
It is the vexed flood of Acheron, 
Scattering its broken billows, till the din 
Touches the arched Hell, and moans, beside 
Its waters rising, discourse tales of sin, 
And human pain, and hope which will not die. 
Ho ! who art thou ? — the Moor? 



GuiOMAK enters. 



GUIOMAR. 



The Sibyl's friend. 



The Moor ? 



The Spaniard, Spirit ; though descended 
From the Miramolin, half, — the rest through veins 
Which blush'd to mix with Mauritanian fire. — 
Look ! I have here a rare and gHttering branch. 
Plucked from an Indian mine, where once it grew, 
Dowried with precious fruits, — the emerald green. 
And the flushed amethyst, white pearls, and 

rubies 
Red as the dragon's blood, who watched (for 

Jove) 
The fruit all gold in gardens far away. 
Hesperian centinel ! — 

SPIRIT. 

You come to see— 



I come to visit 
Your kingdom. Spirit, where the ghosts abound; — 
To look upon your pale society. 
Already have I o'ermatched the Sibyl's art, 
By darker spells that spotted the clear moon ; 
And now I come to syllable my power 
Here, — in your black domain. That hag — She 

caught 
Her incantations from the dreaming winds, 
Babblers of common tales : but / have words 
The wealth of an Arabian wizard's brain, 
Accents drawn from the thunder, — from eclipse ; 
Interpretations of the rebel hills. 
When Earth was in her anarchy ; from blasts 
That blow hot death : From waves that kiss the 

clouds ; 
From clouds that spit their spite out on grey 

hairs ; 
From the dumb ice ; from rains and hurricane : — 
Thus am I armed, dull Spirit; and beside 
With poisonous unguents, which no man un- 

charmed 
Can touch and die not ; and with drops, like gall. 
Wrung from the adder when its hate was highest ; 
Parricide tears ; and rich Egyptian dust 
(Stol'n from a pyramid) — which once was flesh 
And bore on 'ts swarthy brow a jagged crown. — 
What more ? — 

SPIRIT. 

I claim the word. 
GUIOMAR (mutters a word.) 

Ha ! hearest thou ? — 



I obey. 



Come, then : We'll look 
Upon your monstrous boasts and giant hes, 
And shadows made immortal by great pain, — 
Death and the howhng Titans, and proud kings 
Who shook their heads at Heav'n, and beasts that 

cover 
Acres of Hell, — insolent prodigies. 
Whose fables cheat us into fear. 

SPIRIT. 

Behold !— 

{The shadow of Typhon is seen.) 
What see' St thou ? — 



I see the shadow of a dusky snake, 
Curling its leagues of scale, and writhing hither,— 
Away ! — 'tis dragon-headed, with bright eyes 
Fiercer than fire. 

SPIRIT. 

This was the famous son 
Of Terra, who once scared the Gods from 

Heaven, 
And planted terror on Olympian heights. 
Begone ! 



'Tis gone ; and from the oozing earth 
A man comes upwards. 

( The sJiadows of Tantalus and his Children rise.) 



Ay, — this was the Lydian ; 
(Pluto's dear offspring too) — the same who sate 
At the God's golden tables, and drank life ; 
But stole the ambrosian cheer and nectarous 

wine : 
And so he fell from Heaven. 

GUIOMAK. 

Hush those hoarse voices. Hark ! 



They will be heard 

CHORUS (Fiiries.) 
Arise ! O waters, rise ! 
While we sing, and mock his eyes. 
Touch his chin, and tempt his lips, 
Quick ! — and vanish ere he sips. 
Let the fruit before his eyes 
Wither as the shadow flies 
At a touch, until he scream 
Maddened at the hungry dream. 



Why, this is mockery base enough for earth. 
No more, no more. Methinks his pallid cheeks, 
Lean and drawn inwards, move my pain. Away ! 
See, from bis children how he turns his eyes, 
Struck by the hissing scorn. Alas, great tears ! 



438 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



SPIRIT. 

Pass ; and come onwards thou, — Son of the 

Winds ! 
Who married the Atlantean Merope, — 
Who brake immortal oaths, — who tried to chain 
Death in thy palace 

(The Shade of Sysiphus is seen.) , 

GUIOMAR. 

Ah ! See where he toils. 
Hark ! how his sinews crack : and what a load 
Of stone he struggles with — he strains — Away ! 
Look ! where it thunders down. 



'Tis Sisyphus. 

GUIOMAK. 

Let the sad shadow go. 

SPIRIT. 

'Tis gone. 
(,It passes, and the Torment of Ixion appears.) 



Who's he, 
That turns for ever on yon angry wheel ? 
There ? 

SPIRIT. 

The Thessahan ; — he who his friend decoyed 
And burnt to dust ; and when great Jove took 

piiy 

Upon his pain (for he was scorn'd by men) 
And raised him to blue heaven, and gave him 

to drink 
Olympian wine, grew mad. 

GtJIOMAR. 

How mad ? 

spmiT. 

He looked 
Lust on the airy Juno, — the sky queen. 
And on her white breast fed his fiery eyes 
Till sense forsook him. In mad ravishment 
He clasped her 

GUIOMAR. 

O a brave villain ! Clasp her? what ? 

SPIRIT, 

Her shape — a cloud it was, no more ; and yet 
Fairer than Iris when June rains are gone : 
And thence was born the Centaur. 

GUIOMAR, 

^ 'Tis enough. 

And more, but for her name, (beautifiil name !) 
Agave ! 

SPIRIT. 

Rise ! — Arise, daughter of Cadmus! 
Nurse of the son of Semele ! [She appears. 

GUIOMAR, 

Is this 
Agave ? — Oh ! where is her cruel eye ? 



Where is the flushing cheek, — the rage, — the 

lips 
Stained black by Bacchanalian revelry ? — 
Delicat'st thing ! has story done thee wrong, 
Flower of Hermione, and lied away 
Thy whiteness ? Oh ! no purple drops are here: 
Nothing, save beauty which might shame the 

skies. 
And lustrous looks softer than starhght.^Hush ! 
She fades — she fades : a phantom then ? — She's 

gone. 
Where is she gone, — oh ! where ? 



Into the air — into the air ; 

Where the stricken shadows fly ^ 

Who must never face the sky. 

To her endless tasks of woe 

Sad Agave hies 

Downwards, as the plummet flies 

Through the watery worlds below. 

GUIOMAR. 

Bid the scene alter. These pale sights oppress me. 



What comes ? 



Oh ! perilous crowds: — By scores, and scores, — 
Hundreds, — and thousands, — on each other's 

heels 
Treading like madmen or swart idiots 
Shrieking and bellowing ; some, some with their 

hands 
Clasped on their hearts, some with fixed eyes, 

and teeth 
Clenched hke a vice. — Ha 1 look ! 

SPIRIT. 

The mad Cassandra : — 
And he who follows, clad in shining arms, 
Was madder: he could dnnk, and fight, and 

conquer. 
Beyond bis fellows : He, — who tears his beard, 
Was yet most wise ; and he who, following close, 
Snarls like a hound and spits upon the wind, 
Was a proud fool, — no sage. 

GUIOMAR. 

Diogenes ! 
A beggar in his drink were better. Ha ! 
Onwards comes a bhnd man with hoary hairs, 
By a fair child attended. 



Antigone. 



Matchless Antigone! 

Even in Hell thy fame is beautiful. 

Why is she here ? 



She feels no pain ; but lives 
Near to her father, here, who else would pine 
Though in Elysium. 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



439 



GUIOMAR. 

'Tis a gracious doom. 
Minos hath judged thee well. But who is this? 
{The shadow of CcBsar comes.) 

Methinks I see a bald and laurell'd crown, 
And fierce sad eyes beneath it. 



This was he 
Worshipped the dark Bellona. "When he trod 
Past the red river with ambitious step, 
Rome, his great country, fell. 

GUIOMAR. 

Ha ! — Few like he 
Honour'd the purple, and with sword and pen 
Writ their so proud renown. A sadness lies 
In his sunk eye, white lips, and temples pale : 
Is it remorse ? 

SPIRIT. 

Despair. 

GUIOMAK. 

He never knew 
The coward pain on earth ; but your foul air 
Engenders the bad passions, — craft and fear. 

SPIRIT. 

He is but what he was. Your earth hath bounds 
Wide enough for all passions. Like great Hell, 
Mounting Ambition has dethroned your Gods, 
(Your Gods of dust) and laid them prostrate, — 

thas. 
Pass to thy home. 

{The shadow fades.) 

Thou musest, Guiomar — 
Thy thoughts are away, — on earth. 



Give me to see 
Adramelech, — my father's slave, who taught me 
First how to grasp a lance ; and my brown cheek 
(Then scorch'd by fifteen summers) smoothed in 

praise 
Whenever I struck the ring. He was a fellow 
Fit to unlearn the Gods. Throat-deep in sin, 
He led me with him, through the frantic dance 
And the red revel. As the Trojan once 
Waked Palinurus from his dream of death, 
And bade him tell why he, a pilot sage, 
Tumbled amongst the billows, so will I 
Ungrave the swarthy Moor. 

SPIRIT. 

Arise, arise ! 
{A shadow rises,) 

GUIOMAR. 

M-Y, — this is he : Yet his rich colour's gone. 
And he'd a speaking eye, — but these are dumb. 
Sorrow has touch'd him, here, perhaps despair. 
Speak! how is't with thee now, Adramelech? 
Was there provided 710 Elysian home 
For thee, old master, — none ? 



ADRAMELECH. 

None, Guiomar. 

GUIOMAR 

What hast thou done for this ? 

ADRAMELECH. 

Oh ! spare me, spare me. 

GUIOMAR. 

Speak ! what hast done ? Hast made insolent 

love 
To the black queen? — no matter; thou'rt for- 

giv'n. 

ADRAMELECH. 

Oh ! ask me not. I slew — 

GUIOMAR. 

Be dumb. A horror 
Numbs me: — 'Tis but a guess, — but such a 

guess ! 
Adramelech ! — slavish Adramelech, 
Whom my great father spared from stripes and 

chains ! 

ADRAMELECH. 

My kin had ransomed me, but that he chose 
To bury my life — 

GUIOMAR. 

Thou hest, base bloody slave : 
He saved thee, cherished thee. 

ADRAMELECH. 

He gave me gold. 
But kept back freedom : Then I swore to cast 
Vengeance upon him ; — Thee, his son, I train'd 
To devilish arts, and turned thy blood to sin ; 
Thy thoughts to wishes which good men abhor ; 
Thy love to lust ; thy hopes to unbelief; 
And him — I murder' d. 

SPIRIT. 

Go. 
{The shadow fades.) 



Begone ! Fine spirit, 
Lend me thy fire — thy fire. Where is my sword ? 
Gone ! then may the sharp pangs 

SPIRIT, 

His doom is writ ; 
Burnt on the iron books, as firm as fate. 

GUIOMAR. 

murderous villain ! — 

SPIRIT. 

Look ! I change the scene. 
Awake, bold Guiomar. Lo I we have sights 
Shall shame thy Spanish boasts. Look up ! 

GUIOMAR. 

1 scarce can look. — What is't?— 

I see a city which some moaning flood 

Clasps in its fretful arms : and now — words, liko 



430 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



The accents of a drowning swimmer's tongue, 
Gurgle into mine ear, and stifled shrieks 
Seem born amidst the billows, and then die. 



List ! In this pool (upon whose unsunn'd waves 
The city of Death is built, a haunted isle 
The spirits of the damned are doomed to waste 
An age. Its troubled waters, which no wind 
Ever did fawn on, are stirr'd up by groans, 
And struggling wretches whom the torment 

stings. 
Look ! The white foam thou see'st — is theirs. 



Pity not, thou whose art darkens the moon. 
Did not the crafty Sibyl teach thy sou! 
Courage as well as troth ? 



I tremble not: 
But on my human ears some sounds will fall, 
Which sting me into pity. "Tis the curse 
Of my compassion that it meets with scorn. 
Swear thou some monstrous oath and bid it die ! — 
Methinks my soul, which now was bound about 
By dauntless strength, shrinks in this evil air. 
Look ! how the blasted flowers and curling 

shrubs 
Droop their black heads ; and blood-red poppies 

weep, 
And horrid drops stand like Maremma dew 
Upon the sweating boughs, and from huge roots 
<Crook'd like a vulture's claw,) the poison runs. 
I tread on ashes — Faithless, faithless Hell ! 
Give forth your fragrance ! Bid your winds blow 

out! 
Rain balm on me, and in my faint ears pour 
Sidonian music, and the moonlit songs 
Of Syria, — till I sleep. If gums be here, 
Fume the dull ether with their sweets, and let 
Rise incense, — though to Heaven. 

O Granada! 
Where are your mountains now, where are your 

green 
Forests and dawning slopes, on which the day 
Kisses his pearly food and odorous dew ? 
O Granada, my country ! in whose arms 
Sleeps the rich blessing that once filled my life 
With love (such love !) — upon what frightful shore 
Am I forsaken ? — 



Droop not, Guiomar. 
Still hast thou much to see in these dark realms. — 
Thou hast adopted us and our pale race. 
We're brothers ; think on that. For the base 

earth — 
Forget it. 

GDIOMAR. 

Ha! — 'I see a man who flies. 
And one who like a Fury follows him. 

SPIRIT. 

That is a Dream. 



GUIOMAK. 

No more ! 



What would' st thou more ? 
Spirit to spirit is as flesh to flesh. 
His torment is as great as those whose backs 
Are cut by the knotted scourge ; and he thou 

see'st, 
Who by yon flame-hke vapour wastes for days, 
Suffers as martyrs do, when blood-fed crowds 
Choke up the streets of Seville. There, look 

there ! 
Shadows are touch' d by pity. They but dream 
Of that fierce acting which now mocks thine eyes, 
And yet they weep. The tears of Spain are 

hoarded : 
But these — ha, ha, ha ! — 

GUIOMAR. 

Stop thy hollow laugh : 
It rings like a death-peal through me. — Why 

rejoice 
That the dull Spaniards feed thy God with blood ? 



They feed the fools who sway them, priests and 



Rail not, infernal ! Though the lazy blood 
Of the gross prelate and the filthy monk 
Stagnate, unless 'tis moved by shrieks and tears, 
The time shall come — I see a. glorious time. 
When the weak nursling, who hath fed on groans 
From his red cradle up, no more shall stanch 
His drivelling folly with the mourner's hair ; 
Nor the fine patriot's spirit be trod to dust. 
Ha ! look ! — what scarlet shame steals along, — 
there ? 



It is the Cardinal- 



A saint at last. 



Ho, ho ! Justice has caught 
But where are all your kings? 



They sleep, — and dream, 

Bound down to fiery beds by golden chains. 

We pay due honour here. 

GUIOMAR. 

Hast thou no king? 

SPIRIT. 

Ay, — if thou darest behold. 



GUIOMAB. 



I dare. 



Then fly- 
Shadows and spirits ; and ye towers, cloud-buih 
Shake into air ! Open your haunted gates 
Palace of the great Death ! Torments and Pains, 
Who rack the body, and make mad the mind, 
Appear, appear ! And thou, by whose great will 



DRAMATIC SCENES. 



431 



I am, Prince of the grave ! whom shape or space 
Never encompass'd, but through Earth and air 
And the orb'd stars dost reign, and here in Hell, 
Appear ! — 
Now, Spaniard, brace thy heart, and gaze ! 



I seem to look on 

A shapeless cloud; — yet something mocks my 

sight 
Behind. And now, methinks, uprise two thrones, 
And from the back of one out-flames a star ; 
O'er that a phosphor glory hangs, — a crown. 
All studded like Orion's blazing belt ; 
'Tis Lucifer's — I know't: — the other's hid, 
Clouded, — yet, midst the gloom, a brutish shape 
(Like a shrunk mummy) sits. Is he your king ? 

SPIRIT. 

Be patient : thou shalt see. Meanwhile, look here. 

GUIOMAK. 

Ha! On each side, — ^in ranks, like courtiers 

drawn, 
Before some war-propp'd monarch, stand fierce 



Mark me : Yon figure with the adder's tongue 
And tiger-headed, is the Pain whose touch 
Rages like fire : That thin shape, pale as stone, 
Is Palsy : that — Despair, with cold blank eyes ; 
And he who shakes is Ague, hand in hand 
With the flush'd Fever, and blue Pestilence ; 
And there, swoll'n like a ball, the Dropsy lies. 
That — that is Madness. 

GUIOMAK. 

Which ? 



That beast, whose brain 
Is stung by hornets till he mocks the moon 
(Far off) with howling. Hark ! dost thou not 

hear 
How the wolf laughs ? 



GUiOMAR. 

A shuddering sound. 



No more. 



SPIKIT. 

How ! Dost thou tremble ere thy time be come ? 
Guiomar ! 



My lord ! 



GUIOMAR. 
SPIRIT. 

Ha, ha ! thy lord is here. 



GUIOMAR. 

I do not hear your Furies. Bid them howl. 
Methinks their voices, though so fierce of late. 
Would soothe me. 



Dost thou fear ? — The ground thou tread' st 
Is holy. In the presence of great Death 
None come, save these (his court,) and I who hunt 
Myriads before him ; — for his food is flesh. 



GUIOMAR. 

Let's go. Stand thou aside, insolent slave ! 
I'll force my path. 

SPIRIT. 

By me ? — Look well upon me. 

GUIOMAR. 

Thou — thou art changing : Ha ! 

Thy bulk is swelling to a giant's size, — 

And thy face blackens. — Ah ! thou'rt Death? 



I am his minister. Once, — when I drank 
Numidian air, I was a prince, anointed, 
Crown'd, worshipped like a Fear. Thousands 

of slaves 
Bent at my footstool, and I built up towers. 
And razed great hills, and cut deep lakes that 

chain'd 
Sea unto sea. I founded pyramids. 
Which shook, when thunder spake, their pointed 

heads 
At Heaven, and through the cloudy midnight read 
Black secrets, and did act alarming spells. 
Ay, tempted the bright stars (they waned) and 

dragg'd 
A planet from its path, which rush'd aside 
Flashing and flaming, ruining orbs and worlds, — 
/ did it; — but the pale Sickness bow'd my soul. 
And I, who was adored and call'd a God, 
Felt myself fading : — then I pray'd to Death 
To linger, — and he linger'd : while I swore 
To yield to him my immortality, 
If that I was immortal, — and he smiled ; 
And he agreed, — and lo ! I am his slave. 



A potent slave : alas ! — Now let us go. 

Ha ! — look ! The shadows fly — the Pains — they 

fade. 
They are not real ! 

SPIRIT. 

Nothing is real, save Death. 

GUIOMAR. 

And thou ? — 

SPIRIT. 

I am the frenzy of thy brain, 
A mockery. — See ! 

GUIOMAR. 

Thou fadest— Stay \—Diabolux! 
Thou cheater — Ha! what storms are these let 

loose ? 
What raging ! Hush ! — I hear sounds like a 

whirlwind 
Sweeping along ; and oaths that drown the 

thunder ; 
And the gloom trembles where the lightning 

looks ; 
And the parch' d groimd doth quiver as I tread. 
Spirit ! — He's gone : and all are gone — save One 
Curtain'd behind yon cloud. — False Spirit ! — Ha ! 
Look at his fiery track ! How he bestrides 
The hurricane, and through the thick air darts 



.432 



BARRY CORNWALL 



Back his bright scorn! Hush '.—Hark '.—the 
Horror laughs. 

A Voice is heard. 
Guiomar ! 

&UIOMAR. 

Ha ! who whispers ! 

VOICE. 

Guiomar ! — 
Be ready ! Thou hast earned immortal life 
And I, thy Lord, expect thee. 

GUIOMAR. 

Heav'n ! 

VOICE. 

Prepare ! — 
Thy home is made : Thy labours are appointed : 
Thy name is writ amongst my pomp of slaves. 
Behold ! I bid thee welcome Death, thy king ! 
{The figure of Death is seen.) 

GUIOMAR. 

Ha! Ghastly Phantasm !— Turn thy pallid leer 
Away : it sickens me. Methinks I stand 
Full in the leopard's eye :— What arrowy Ught 
He shoots out — Ha ! Begone, thou blasting dream! 
Touch me not — come not — Ah ! my limbs are 
lock'd. 
(The arrow strikes him as the figure fades.) 

Oh ! 'Tis a wintry bolt, — colder than frost : 

But rankling,— rankling. Oh ! Who laughs 

above ? — 
I hear thee, spiteful Spirit: and I come. 
Down to the lower graves, o'er-scaled by crime, 
I go, to make thee mirth, — leaving for aye 

This strange and melancholy wilderness. 

From the rich Spain I came (a bright blue air) 
To look upon these heaths and sunless shores, 
With no companion: — but a wizard's step 
Must stop not, till it treads the lowest depths. 
Oh ! how I dreamed that I might spread my name 
(Once — once !) amongst a v/ide posterity ; 
And build up a renown, Uke lasting brass ; 
And be hereafter told of, as a man 
Who sold his birthright (pleasure) for great fame— 
And now I die, — wither'd : yet will I die 
Bravely, — for so I lived. 

Infernal Halls ! 
Ye everlasting halls of Grief and Shame ! 
Where are your crowds, your shapes, your wild 

array 
Of daemons, and Tartarian chivalry ? 
Where are your Gods, — crown'd Sin and the 

gaunt Death, 
To herald me ? — I claim all sovereign pomp. 
For to your cloud-black kingdoms never came 

A mightier than to-day. Ha ! look ! — I see 

A flame of horsemen rush against the wind ; 
And bony crowds pass by with clattering feet ; 
Hydras and giants, and wide-gaping snakes ; 
And hissing dogs, and vultures that drop blood; 
And the wild women with their crawling hair, — 
Avaunt ! — and look ! the enormous Briareus 
Comes, and foul Typhon drags his scaly train 
Here, — here! — Away ! — Dash down your burning 

rain! 



Stifle me, — slay me, — quick ! — [He falls. 

Lucifer I 

Prince of the morning, to thy radiant arms 
Take me, for now I die. To Ihee — (who wast 
Banished from all the Heavens to tread dark Hell) 
Star of a stormy world ! alone I yield. 
If there be pity left 'midst thy despair, 
Pity me. I have erred — and — dared — like thee. 
Ambition was my God ; — and it was thine. 
Pity me — fallen fallen. [Dies. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



DEDICATORY SONNET. 



It may be that the rhymes I bring to thee 
(An idle offering, Beauty) are my last : 
Therefore, albeit thine eyes may never cast 
Its light on them, 'tis fit thine image be 
Allied unto my song ; for silently 
Thou mayst connect the present with the past. 
'Tis fit, for Saturn now is hurrying fast, 
And thou mayst soon be nothing, e'en to me. 
Be this the record then of pleasant hours 
Departed, when beside the river shaded 
I walk'd with thee, gazinjj my heart away, 
And, from the sweetest of your garden flowers, 
Stole only those which on your bosom faded. 
— 0, why has happiness so short a day ! 



Nunc scio quid sit amor. 



I. 

There is a spirit within us, which arrays 
The things we doat upon with colourings 
Richer than roses — brighter than the beams 
Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings 
His showers of light upon the peach, or plays 
With the green leaves of .Tune, and strives to 

dart 
Into some great forest's heart. 
And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams. 
There is a spirit that comes upon us when 
Boyhood is gone, — before we rank as men. 
Before the heart is canker' d, and before 
We lose or cast away that innocent feeling 
That gives life all its freshness. Never more 
May I feel this, and yet the times have been 
I have seen love in burning beauty stealing 
O'er a young cheek and run the bright veina 

through. 
And light up, hke a heaven, eyes of such blue 
As in the summer skies was never seen. 
I was an idler then, and life was green. 
And so I loved and languish' d, and became 
A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame, 
And did abase myself before him : he 
Laugh' d outright at my fierce credulity. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



433 



II. 

And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet, 
And the same thought that pleased me haunts me 

still, 
Chief at the hour when day and evening meet, 
And twilight, shadowy magician ! calls 
Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls, 
And ranks them out before us till they fill 
The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hili, 
The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill. 
The waving wood and the evanishing sky, 
Tow'rd this subduing of the soul, ally 
Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band. 
If then the elements league against us, and 
The heart rebel against the mind's command. 
Why, we must sink before these sickly dreams 
Until the morning comes, and sterner themes 
Do fit us through this world to sail. 
Farewell to love, — and yet, 'tis woven in my tale. 

III. 

A story (still believed through Sicily) 
Is told of one young girl who chose to die 
For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe, 
If that ye can believe so strange a story, 
That woman ever could so deeply grieve, 
Save she who from Leucadia's promontory 
Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy 
(Ungrateful he to work her such annoy ;) 
But time hath, as in sad requital, given 
A branch of laurel to her, and some bard 
Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave 
Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven : 
And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar 
Along the Adriatic, in the wave 
She dips her plumes, and cm the watery shore 
Sings as the love-crazed Sappho sung of yore. 

IV. 

One night a masque was held within the walls 
Of a Sicilian palace : the gayest flowers 
Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls, 
And, m remoter spots, fresh waterfalls 
That streamed half- hidden by sweet lemon 

bowers 
A low and silver-voiced music made : 
And there the frail perfuming woodbine stray'd, 
Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough. 
And as in female trust seemed there to grow, 
Like woman's love 'tnidst sorrow flourishing : 
And every odorous plant and brighter thing 
Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain, 
That from the bosom of the spring 
Starts into life and beauty once again, 
Blossom'd ; and there in walks of evergreen, 
Gay cavaliers, and dames high-born and fair, 
Wearing that rich and melancholy smile 
That can so well beguile 
The human heart from its recess, were seen : 
And lovers, full of love or studious care, 
Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, 
And spirits that never till the morning sleep. 
And, far away, the mountain Etna flung 
Eternally its pyramid of flame 
High as the Heav'ns, while from its heart there 

came 

55 



Hollow and subterranean noises deep, 
And all around the constellations hung 
Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky, 
As to do honour to that revelry. 

V. 

Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd 
Sick at the soul with sorrow ; her quick eye 
Ran restless through the throng, and then she 

bowed 
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh 
Breathed sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy. 
The dark-eyed Guide whom she loved so well ; 
(0 how he loved Sicilian Isabel I) 
Why came he not that night to share the joy 
That sate on every face, and from her heart 
Bid fear and all, ay, all but hope, depart — 
For hope is present happiness : Shapes and things 
That wear a beauty hke the imperial star 
Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews. 
And like an arch of promise shine afar, 
When near cast off their skiey colourings, 
And all their rainbow- Uke and radiant hues 
Are shadowy mockeries and deceptive fire. 
But, Hope ! the brightest of the passionate choir 
That through the wide world range, 
And touch with passing fingers that most strange 
And various instrument, the human heart, — 
Ah ! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart? 

VI. 
Dark Guido came not all that night, while she 
(His young and secret bride) sate watchuig there. 
Pale as the marble columns. She search'd around 
And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry ; 
But if she heard a quick or lighter bound 
Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight 
Drew her white hand to see her raven hair 
Come down in masses like the starless night, 
And 'neath each shorten' d mask she strove the 

while 
To catch his sweet inimitable smile. 
Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore 
(He whom the wild and wanton nymphs of yore 
Stole from Alcmena's son.) But one and then 
Another passed, and bowed, and passed again. 
She looked on all in vain : ai last more near 
A figure came, and, whispering in her ear, 
Asked in a hoarse, and quick, and bitter tone, 
Why there she sate alone, 
The mistress of the feast, while all passed by 
Unwelcomed even by her wandering eye f 
It was her brother's voice — Leoni ! — no 
It could not be that he would jeer her so. 
He breathed a name; 'twas "Guido;" trem- 
blingly 
She sate and sank from his inquiring eye. 
But hid the mighty secret of her soul. 
Again — ah ! then she heard her terrible doom 
Sound like a prophecy, and to her room 
Like a pale solitary shade she stole. 

VII. 

And now to tell of him whose tongue had gain'd 
The heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came 
(And he was of a Une of fame) 
From Milan, where his father perish'd. 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



He was the last of all his race, and fled 

To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reign'd : 

A mighty city once, though now she sleeps 

Amidst her amphitheatre of hills, 

Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps, 

And not a page in living story fills. 

He had that look which poets love to paint, 

And artists fashion, in their happier mood. 

And budding girls when first their dreamings 

faint 
Show them such forms as maids may love. He 

stood 
Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven-descended, 
Hermes or young Apollo, or whom she 
The moon-lit Dian on the Latmian hill. 
When all the woods, and all the winds were still, 
Kiss'd with the kiss of immortahty. 
And in his eye where love and pride contended. 
His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell 
Which they who love and have been loved can 

tell. 
And she — but what of her, his chosen bride, 
His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride. 
And loved almost too much for happiness ? 
Enough to say that she was born to bless, 
She was surpassing fair : her gentle voice 
Came hke the fabled music that beguiles 
The sailor on the waters, and her smiles 
Shone like the light of heaven, and said "Re- 



joice. 



vni. 



That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green ; 
For in that land the sward springs fresh and free 
Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen 
To break the glassy quiet of the sea: 
And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel, 
Unclasp' d - e tresses of her chesnut hair, 
Which in ner white and heaving bosom fell 
Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air 
Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there : 
And then his dark eye sparkled, and he wound 
The fillets hke a coronet around 
Her brow, and bade her rise, and rise a queen. 
And oh ! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand 
Press'd 'gainst his parted lips, as though to check 
In mimic anger all those whispers bland 
He knew so well to use, and on his neck 
Her round arm hung, while half as in command 
And half entreaty did her swimming eye 
Speak of forbearance, till from her pouting lip 
He snatch'd the honey-dews that lovers sip. 
And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully 
She frown' d, and wore that self-betraying air 
Which women loved and flatter' d love to wear. 

IX. 

Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay 

Beneath the last hght of a summer's day. 

Tell (and would watch the while her steadfast 

eye) 
How on the lone Pacific he had been. 
When the Sea Lion on his watery way 
Went rolling through the billows green, 
And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity : 
And he would tell her of past times, and where 
He rambled in his boyhood far away. 
And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair 



And mighty and magnificent, for he 
Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd Hke a god 
Upon that land where first Columbus trod ; 
And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' tide. 
And by Niagara's cataracts of foam, 
And seen the wild deer roam 
Amongst interminable forests, where 
The serpent and the savage have their lair 
Together. Nature there in wildest guise 
Stands undebased and nearer to the skies ; 
And 'midst her giant trees and water wide 
The bones of things forgotten, buried deep, 
Give ghmpses of an elder world, espied 
By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep. 
When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth, 
Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth. 

X. 

Her sleep that night was fearful, — 0, that night ! 

If it indeed was sleep : for in her sight 

A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood. 

And pointed far up the great Etna's side. 

Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood 

Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below. 

And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow. 

It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride 

With melancholy air and glassy eye, 

And spoke — " Awake, and search yon dell, for \, 

Though risen above my old mortality. 

Have left my mangled and unburied limbs 

A prey for wolves hard by the waters there. 

And one lock of my black and curled hair. 

That one I vowed to thee, my beauty, swims 

Like a mere weed upon the mountain river ; 

And those dark eyes you used to love so well 

(They loved you dearly, my own Isabel) 

Are shut, and now have lost their hght for ever. 

Go then into yon far ravine, and save 

Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave* 

Than what the stream and withering winds may 

lend. 
And 'neath the basil-tree we planted, give 
The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live 
And shed a solace on thy after days ; 
And thou — but oh ! I ask thee not to tend 
The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze, 
For with a spirit's power I see thy heart." 
He said no more, but with the dawning day 
Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart 
Before the conquering sunbeams, silently. 
Then sprung she from the pillow where she 

lay, 
To the wild sense of doubtful misery : 
And when she woke she did obey the dream. 
And journey'd onward to the mountain stream, 
Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she 

drew 
The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew, 
And with a beating heart descended, where 
The waters wash'd, it said, its floating hair. 

XL 

It was a spot like those romancers paint, 
Or painted when of dusky knights they told 



* I have ventured to substitute heart for the head 
of the lover. The latter appeared to me to be a ghastly 
object to preserve. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



435 



Wandering about in forests old, 
When the last purple colour was waxing faint 
And day was dying in the west : — the trees 
(Dark pine and chesnut, and the dwarfed oak 
And cedar) shook their branches till the shade 
Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played 
Seem'd holding dim communion with the breeze. 
Below, a tumbling river roll'd along 
(Its course by lava rocks and branches broke) 
Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song ; 
And there on shatter' d trunks the lichens grew 
And covered, with their golden garments, — 

Death : 
And when the tempest of November blew 
The Winter trumpet, till its failing breath 
Went moaning into silence, every green 
And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell 
Some trembhng story of that mountain dell. 

XII. 

That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken* 
The soul to sights and contemplations deep, 
Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep 
A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken ; 
But when across its frozen wastes there comes 
A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears 
Tidings of ruin from those icy domes. 
The cast and fashion of a thousand years, 
It is not for low meanings that the soul 
Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long. 
Doth walk abroad with Death, and sweep among 
The valleys where the avalanches roll. 
'Tis not to speak of "Doubt" that her great 

voice, 
Which in the plains doth bid the heart rejoice. 
Comes sounding like an oracle. Amidst men 
There are no useless marvels: Ah ! why then 
Cast on the wonder-working nature shame, 
Or deem that, like a noisy braggart, she 
(In all things else how great and freed from blame) 
Once in an age should shout " A mystery !" 

XIII. 
But, to my story. Down the slippery sod 
With trembling hmbs, and heart that scarcely 

beat, 
And catching at the brambles, as her feet 
Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod ; 
And there she saw — Oh ! till that moment none 
Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun 
And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought, 
And how she from each glance a courage caught ; 
For light and UCe had scattered half her fright. 
And she could almost smile on the past night ; 
So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear 
Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister. 
She took her weary way and searched the dell, 
And there she saw him — dead. Poor desolate 

child 
Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild 
No pity on the boy you loved so well ! 
There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, 
His pale face upwards to the careless day, 



* Thia paragraph is obscure ; it was written to repel 
an assertion (made in a poem to which I cannot recur) 
that the fall of an avalanche spoke " Doubt and Death. 
The reader can, if he pleases, pass it over altogether 



That smiled as it was wont ; and he was found 
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground. 
And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows 

cold. 

His black hair floated as the phantom told, 
And like the very dream his glassy eye 
Spoke of gone mortality. 

XIV. 

She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose 

brain 

Is shock' d o' the sudden : then she looked again : 
And then she wept. At last — but wherefore ask 
How — tremblingly, she did her bloody task? 
She took the heart and washed it in the wave. 
And bore it home and placed it 'midst wild 

flowers. 

Such as he loved to scent in happier hours. 
And 'neath the basil-tree she scoop'd a grave, 
And therein placed the heart, to common earth 
Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human 

birth. 

XV. 

And the tree grew and grew, and brighter green 
Shot from its boughs than she before had seen. 
And softly with its leaves the west winds played t 
And she did water it with her tears, and talk 
As to a living spirit, and in the shade 
Would place it gently when the sun did walk 
High in his hot meridian, and she prest 
The boughs (which fell hke balm) upon her breast 
She never pluck'd a leaf nor let a weed 
Within a shadow of its branches feed. 
But nursed it as a mother guafds her child. 
And kept it shelter'd from the " winter wild:" 
And so it gn w beyond its fellows, and 
Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there 
And whispering to the moon and midnight air, 
And stood a thing unequalled in the land. 

XVI. 
But never more along her favourite vale. 
Or by the village paths or hurrying river, 
Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail 
Across the setting sun, while waters quiver 
And breezes rise to bid the day farewell — 
No more in any bower she once loved well. 
Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell 
Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod ; 
Yet Love himself, like an invisible god. 
Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath 
Fill'd the wide air with music sweet and soft, 
Such as might calm or conquer Death (if Death 
Could e'er be conquered,) and from aloft 
Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy. 
Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears ; 
And recollections came of happier years 
Thronging from all the cells of memory. 
All her heart's follies she remember'd then. 
How coy and rash — how scornful she had been. 
And then how tender, and how coy again. 
And ever shifting of the burning scene 
That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain. 



xvn. 

Leoni — (for this tale had ne'er been told 
By her who knew alone her brother's guilt,) 



436 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt 
Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold, 
And come abroad and claim a sepulchre ; 
Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore 
" That Guido sailed and would return no more" 
Was disbelieved and not forgot by her ; 
Or that she had discover'd where he lay 
Before his limbs had wither'd quite away, 
Or — but whate'er it was that moved him then, 
He dug and found the heart, unperish'd ; 
For she, to keep it unhke the common dead. 
Had wound it round with many a waxen Une, 
And bathed it with a curious medicine : 
He found it where, hke a dark spell, it lay. 
And cursed and cast it to the waves away. 

XVIII. 

That day the green tree wither'd, and she knew 
The solace of her mind was stol'n and gone : 
And then she felt that she was quite alone 
In the wide world ; so to the distant woods 
And caverned haunts, and where the mountain 

floods 
Thunder into the silent air, she flew. 
She flew away, and left the world behind. 
And all that man doth worship, in her flight; 
All that around the beating heart is twined ; 
Yet., as she looked farewell to human kind. 
One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight, 
The last that frenzy gave to poor distress. 
And then into the dreary wilderness 
She went alone, a crazed, heart-broken thing: 
And in the sohtude she found a cave 
Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming, 
Whereb]'' a black and solitary pine. 
Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave 
Of pow'r and death a token and a sign; 
And there she lived for months : She did not 

heed 

The seasons or their change, and she would feed 
On roots and berries, as the creatures fed 
Which had in woods been born and nourished. 

XIX. 

Once, and once only was she seen, and then 
The chamois hunter started from his chase. 
And stopped to look a moment on her face. 
And could not turn him to his sports again. 
Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek. 
And settled Madness in her glazed eye 
Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break. 
And, as the .spent winds waver ere they die. 
She to herself a few wild words did speak, 
And sung a strange and broken melody ; 
And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground 
With yellow leaves that perish' d ere their time, 
And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime 
With the low music of her song : — the sound 
Came like a dirge filling the air around. 
And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme. 

1. 
There is a spirit stands by me : 
It comes by night, it comes by day, 
And when the glittering lightnings play. 
Its look is pale and sad to see. 
Tis he — to whom my brother gave 
A red unconsecrated grave. 



2. 
I hear him when the breezes moan. 
And, when the rattling thunders talk, 
I hear him muttering by me walk. 
And tell me I am " quite alone." 
It is the dijemon of the dead. 
For all that's good hath upwards fled. 

3. 

It is a daemon which the wave 
Hath cast abroad to scare my soul ; 
Yet wherefore did the waters roll 
So idly o'er his hasty grave ? 
Was the sad prayer I uttered then 
Unheard, — or is it due again ? 



Is't not enough that I am here, 
Brainstruck and cold and famished, 
A mean remove above the dead, — 
But must my soul be wild with fear 
As sorrow, now that hope is gone. 
And I am lost and left alone ? 

5. 
They told me, when ray days were young. 
That I was fair and born to reign, 
That hands and hearts were my domain, 
And witchery dwelt upon my tongue : 
And now — but what is this to me. 
Struck on the rock of memory ? 



And yet at times I dream — ay yet. 
Of vanish'd scenes and golden hours, 
And music heard in orange bowers 
(For madness cannot quite forget,) 
And love, breathed once to me alone. 
In sighs, and many a melting tone. 



Then curious thoughts, and floating things 
Saved from the deluge of the brain, 
Pass with perplexity and pain ; 
Then darkness, deaths, and murderings,— 
And then unto my den I hie, 
• And vainly, vainly pray to die. 

XX. 

At last she wandered home. She came by night. 
The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light 
Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along. 
The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song,^ 
And shook the red leaves from the forest trees ; 
And subterranean voices spoke. The seas 
Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell 
Came silently which seamen know so well ; 
And all was like an Omen. Isabel 
Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay, 
And there they found her at the break of day ; 
Her look was smiling, but she never spoke 
Or motioned, even to say — her heart was broke : 
Yet, in the quiet of her shining eye 
Lay death, and something we are wont to deem 
(When we discourse of some such mournful 

theme) 
Beyond the look of mere mortality. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



437 



XXI. 
She died — yet scarcely can we call it Death 
When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath 
She was translated to a finer sphere, 
For what could match or make her happy here ? 
She died, and with her gentle death there came 
Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell 
A victim to that unconsuming flame, 
That burns and revels on the heart of man ; 
Remorse. — This is the tale of Isabel, 
And of her love the young Italian. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA; 
A SPANISH TALE. 



I. 

The octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rima) 
Is a delightful measure , made of ease 

Turn'd up with epigram, and, though it seem a 
Verse that a man may scribble when he please. 

Is somewhat difficult : indeed, I deem a 
Stanza hke Spenser's will be found to teaze 

Less, or heroic couplet ; there, the pen 

May touch and polish, and touch up again. 

II. 

But, for the octave measure — it should slip 
Like running water o'er its pebbled bed. 

Making sweet music (here I OM'n I dip 
In Shakspeare for a simile,) and be fed 

Freely, and then the poet must not nip 
The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led 

By old, approved, poetic canons ; no. 

But give his words the slip, and let 'em go. 

III. 

I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme 
Some short account of Don Diego de 

Montilla, quite a hero in his time, 

Who conquer'd captain Cupid, as you'll see : 

My tale is sad in part, in part sublime. 

With here and there a smack of pleasantry : 

As to the moral, — why — 'tis under cover, 

I leave it for the reader to discover. 

IV. 
"Arms and" — but I forget. Love and the man 

I sing, — that's Virgil's method of beginning, 
Alter'd a little just to suit my plan. 

I own the thing, and so there's not much sin- 
ning: 
Most writers steal a good thing when they can. 

And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning. 
The worst of 'tis we now and then detect 'em, 
Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em. 



Love and the man I sing — and yet 'twould be 
Ab well methinks, nay perhaps it may be 
better, 



Particularly for a young bard like me, 
Not to stick quite so closely to the letter ; 

One's verse as well as fancy should be free. 
The last indeed hates every sort of fetter : 

So, as each man may call what maid he chooses 

By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses. 

VI. 

Hearken ! ye gentle sisters (eight or nme,) 
Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill, 

If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine. 
And ye there meet your mighty master still, 

And still for poet heads the laurel twine, 
And dip your pitchers in the famous rill, 

I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; though first I 

'11 just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat 
thirsty. 

VII. 
And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold 

Thee in thy glory — Lord and Life of day ! 
Sun-bright Apollo ! with thy locks of gold. 

As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way^ 
Not marbled and reduced to human mould. 

As thou didst stand, one of a rich array 
(Yet even there distinct and first of all,) 
In the vast palace of the conquer'd Gaul. 

vm. 

But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright 
For me to look upon with earthly eye, 

Ah ! send some little nymph of air or light. 
Whom love has touch' d and taken to the sky,. 

And bid her, till the inspiration quite 

O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my Up, and sigh 

Such songs (and I will list to her for hours) 

As once were sung in amaranthine bowers. 

IX. 

And I will lie pillow' d upon her breast, 
And drink the music of her words, and dream 

(When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest) 
Haply of many a high immortal theme ; 

And, in the lightning of her beauty blest. 
My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam 

From her dark eyes — but, ah ! your glorious day, 

Ye nymphs and deities, now hath passed away. 

X. 

Oh ! ye delicious fables, where the wave 
And woods were peopled and the air with 
things 

So lovely — why, ah! why has science grave, 
Scatter' d afar your sweet imaginings ? 

Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave, 
And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's 
wings ? 

Alas ! the spirit languishes, and lies 

At mercy of life's dull realities. 

XI. 

No more by well or bubbling fountain clear 
The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun, 

Nor longer may we in the branches hear 
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run 

Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer 
Her way amongst the waves when day is done. 



438 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Shadow nor shape remains — Bat I am prating 
While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting. 

XII. 
Diego was a knight, but more enhghten'd 

Than knights were then, or are, in his countree, 
Young — brave — (at least, he'd never yet been 
frighten'd,) 
Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be : 
He play'd on the guitar, could read and write, and 
Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the 
sea. 
That sort of man one hopes to meet again, 
And the most amorous gentleman in Spain, 

XIII. 
There was a languor in his Spanish eye 

That almost touched on softness ; had he been 
Instead of man a woman, by the bye. 

His languish had done honour to a queen ! 
For there was in it that regaUty 

Of look, which says the owner must have been 
Something in former days, vv-hatever now : 
And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd) o'er his brow. 

XIV. 

The Don Diego (mind this, Don T>ieygo: 
Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw 

The daughter of a widow from Tobago, 
Whose husband fell with honour : i. e. War 

Ate up the lord of this same old virago, 

Who straight return'd to Spain, and went to 
law 

With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke 

The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke. 

XV. 

The lady won her cause ; then suitors came 
To woo her and her daughters : she had two : 

Aurelia was the elder, and her name, 

Grace, wit, and so forth, through the country 
flew 

Quicker than scandal : young Aurora's fame — 
She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew 

And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower 

Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour. 

XVI. 

Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said, 
Grace, and Diego loved her Hke his life ; 

OfFer'd to give her half his board and bed. 
In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife. 

But she turned to the right about her head. 
And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife ; 

And bade him wait, be silent, and forget 

Such nonsense : He heard this, and — loved her 
yet. 

XVII. 
He loved : how he loved ! His heart was full 

Of that immortal passion, which alone 
Holds through the wide world its eternal rule 

Supreme, and with its deep seducing tone 
Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful, 

The brave, and all, to bow before its throne ; 
The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain ; 
The rich requital for an age of pain. 



xvin. 

Beneath the power of that passion he 
Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun 

Has scorch' d ere yet in green maturity — 
He was a desperate gamester who ne'er won 

A single stake, but saw the chances flee, 
And still kept throwing on till — all was done : 

A rose on which the worm had rioted 

[All this was what his friends and others said.] 

XIX. 

And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek 
Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung 

A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak, 
Which flushing through the darker olive, clung 

Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak 
Men will, I'm told, or when their pride is stung 

Call up that deepening crimson in ghls' features : 

Some people swear it makes 'em different crea- 
tures. 

XX. 

For me, I always have an awkward feeling 
When that vermiUon tide comes flooding o'er 

The brows and breast, instead of gently steaUng 
On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more; 

The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing, 
And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more, 

Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure, 

Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at 
leisure. 

XXI. 
His mistress — Shall I paint Aurelia's frown? 

Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye, 
Through whose dark fringes such a beam shot 
down 

On men (yet touch' d at times with witchery) 
As when Jove's planet, distant and alone, 

Flashes from out the sultry summer sky 
And bids each lesser star give up its place. 
— This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case. 

XXII. 
Her younger sister, — she was meek and pale, 

And scarcelj' noticed when Aurelia near ; 
None e'en had thought it worth their while to rail 

On her, and in her young unpractised ear 
Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail 

To win had ne'er been utter' d. She did steer 
Her gentle course along hfe's dangerous sea 
For sixteen pleasant summers quietly. 

XXIII. 
Her shape was delicate : her motion free 

As his, that " charter'd libertine" the air, 
Or Dian's, when upon the mountains she 

Follow' d the fawn : her bosom full and fair ; 
It seem'd as Love himself might thither flee 

For shelter when his brow was parch' d with 
care: 
And her white arm, like marble turn'd by grace, 
Was of good length, arid in its proper place. 

XXIV. 

Her hair was black as night ; her eyes were blue ; 
Her mouth was small, and from its opening 
stream' d 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



439 



Notes like the silver voice of young Carew, 
Of whose sweet music I have often dream'd, 

And then (as youths like me are wont to do) 
Fancying that every other damsel scream'd, 

Started to hear Miss C. again. I sit 

In general (to be near her) in the pit. 

XXV. 
Let lovers who have croaking Delias swear 

Their tones are "just in tune" or "just the 
thing :" 
Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair, 

Pan's reedy pipe — Apollo's golden string — ■ 
How Memnon sung, and made the Thebans stare 

When he saw Titan's daughter scattering 
Flowers — 'tis all stuff, reader : what say you ? 
Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew. 

XXVI. 

Oh ! witching as the nightingale first heard 
Beneath the Arabian heavens, wooing the rose 

Is she, or thrush new-mated, or the bird 
That calls the morning as the last star goes 

Down in the west, and out of sight is heard 
Awhile, then seems in silence to repose 

Somewhere beyond the clouds, in tiie full glory 

Of the new-risen Sun. — Now to my story : 

XXVII. 

The Don was constant at his Lady's court, 
For every day at twelve she held a levee, 

Where song, joke, music, and all sorts of sport 
Went 'round, so that the hours were seldom 
heavy ; 

Aurelia talk'd (and talking was her forte,) 

Or quizzed her female friends, and then the 
bevy 

Of coxcombs vow'd such wit was never heard : 

For this one gave his honour, one his word. 

XXVIII. 

Things went on pretty smoothly till the Don 
Declared his love ; but, when lie sought to 
marry, 

He found she would not give up all for one : 
What I Counts and Cavaliers and all, and carry 

Herself demurely — 'twas not to be done: 

She said she loved him not, and bade him tarry 

(As I have told :) on which he did begin 

To grow and soon grew tolerably thin. 

XXIX. 

He gazed and watch' d, and watch' d and gazed 
upon her. 

And look'd, hke Suckling's lover, thin and pale; 
But how should looking thin have ever won 
her, 

When looking well (as he says) didn't prevail ? 
It did not answer with our Spanish Donna, 

Nor can it, save in poem, play, or tale ; 
In fact there's not much interesting in't. 
Unless it be in hot-press and good print. 

XXX. 

Yet, gentles, would I not be thought to jeer 
The Love that flourishes when young hearts 
are given, 



And pledged in hope and fullest faith sincere, 
Nor would I jest when such fond hearts are 
riven. 
I only mean that love ('tis pretty clear) 

When 't rises without hope is merely leaven, 
And that boys suffering 'neath the lash of Cupid, 
Are sometimes even more than sad; they're 
stupid. 

XXXI. 

At last, Aurora saw him : she had seen 
Him oft, when scarcely turning from her book 

She bow'd, and then as he had never been. 
Resumed her study. Now, his alter'd look 

She mark'd, and troubled eye once so serene. 
And trembling limbs which Love's wild fever 
shook : 

— His faint and melancholy smile that shone 

So seMom, but so beautiful, was gone. 

XXXII. 

She look'd and look'd again : She could not turn, 
And yet she tried, her eyes or thoughts away ; 

And as it were from pity, strove to learn 
The cause of all his ill, and did essay 

(While passion in her heart began to burn) 
To soothe his sadness, and to make him gay, 

Would smile and talk of Love, or liveUer matter : 

A simpleton ! as if 'twould make him fatter. 

XXXIII. 

But sorrow never lasts ; he must have died, 
Had he not some way sought and found relief, 

For, howsoe'er we try the fact to hide. 
Love is but meagre diet sauced with grief; 

'Tis feasting too much like the Barmecide, 
Who thought to pass off his invisible beef, 

Kid, nuts, et cetera, on his guest, and so 

Got his ears box'd for lying, as we know. 

XXXIV. 
Diego, when he found all hope was gone. 

Determined like a prudent man to fly ; 
At first he tore his hair (it was his own) 

But, then, his mother — she began to cry, 
And asked him, would he leave her all alone 

(She who had watch' d and lov'd him long) 
die. 
And her grey hairs to the grave with sorrow bring?' 
He said " he could not think of such a thing." 

XXXV. 

He said, "Dear Mother, on my honour (not 
In its new meaning) from Madrid I'll go. 

And if I think more of her I'll be shot." 
Yet, as he spoke, a settled look of woe 

Declared she never could be quite forgot 
Whom in his young heart he had worshipp'd 
so ; 

And the mute eloquence of his sickly smile 

Told all his thoughts, for grief doth not beguiia. 

XXXVI. 

The knave (it is his study) and the fool 

(For he has glimpses) and the madman mfiy 

Deceive; they do by accident or rule, 

And keep their look of cunning from the day ; 



440 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



But grief is lesson'd in an honest school, 

And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array, 
Its pallid colours or its hectic flush ; 
It ought to put the others to the blush. 

XXXVII. 
Well — one day, when king Phoebus in the East 

Had lifted his round head from off his pillow, 
And frighten' d from their slumbers man and beast, 

And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow. 
The Don Diego, from Love's toil released. 

With ducats primed and head ycrown'd with 
willow, 
Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh, 
Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers "fly." 

XXXVIIL 

They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,) 
From great Madrid, through Old and New 
Castile, 

Stopp'd at one town and rattled through another, 
Ate fish and fowl and flesh (excepting veal :) 

Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother 
Cupid ; he tried, and soon began to feel 

That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry 

(He smother'd him with Port and sometimes 
Sherry.) 

XXXIX. 
Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms 

Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia, 
And gaze and sigh " inimitable charms !" 

And then "what ruby lips!" until 'twas 
really a 
Joke, for although it filled her with alarms 

To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a 
Bystander must have laugli'd to see a woman 
Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon. 

XL. 
Well, this went on : he found that wine was better 
Than thought, while thought ran cankering 
through his breast, 
And so he talk'd of other things, and let her 
Sweet name sometimes ("Divine Aurelia") 
rest : 
To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter. 

In which he said that — ' ' all was for the best — 
That love might grow to folly — that his mother 
Had but one child, and might not have another." 

XLI. 

' ' That filial duty was a noble thing : 

That he must live though 'gainst his inclina- 
tion. 

For though he once resolved, he said, to fling 
Himself into the sea as an oblation 

To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting. 
He'd take a dip merely for recreation : 

And then he added he should go to Cadiz, 

To see the place, and how he hked the ladies." 

XLII. 

The letter ended with — I quite forget 

The actual words, but with some short apology 

About his lungs, he said he owed a debt 

To nature, and — pshaw! though I've been to 
college I 



Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet, 
And often blunder in my phraseology ; 
No matter, he was sick he did declare. 
And wanted change of scene and country air. 

XLIII. 
And then he rambled through his native land, 

And by her rivers wide and silver rills. 
Running through cork and beechen forests, and 

Breathed the brave air of those immortal hills. 
Which like an altar or memorial stand 

Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills 
Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name 
Was noble, and identified with fame. 

XLIV. 

Now — but I'm quite a shallow politician. 
And we've enough of politics in prose. 

And so to men of talent and condition 
I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes : 

What I should say would be mere repetition. 
And bring the theme no nearer to its close. 

So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time; 

Beside, the thing's too serious for this rhyme. 

XLV. 

Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla 

(Seville,) and saw some mighty pleasant sights, 
Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla 

And new Bolero danced on summer nights, 
And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a 

Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes. 
N. B. The dances I have named are national, 
And, hke all others, tolerably irrational. 

XLVI. 
Yet, I remember some half pleasant days 

When I did love a common country dance. 
Ere peace and fashion had conspired to raise 

Quadrilles to note in England as in France : 
I came in then for some small share of praise, 

But now I dread, (I own 't) a woman's glance : 
These vile Quadrilles do so perplex one's feet 
With windings, — like the labyrinth of Crete. 

XLVII. 

Four girls stand up, and beside each a beau ' 
Of figure, stiffen'd upwards from the hip, 

(Loose as his morals downwards) points his toe, 
Prepared through many a puzzling maze to 
slip, 

" Poule" — " Moulinet" — " Balancez"-^" Dos a 
dos" — 
(Wherein the pretty damsels seem to dip, 

And rise and fall, just like the unquiet ocean,) 

And other moods of which I have no notion. 

XLVIII. 
He stay'd some time at Cadiz ; though he hatedj 
He vow'd, the shocking gallantries which 
there 
Some — any men may have, till they are sated ; 

Yet look'd he sometimes at the sweeping hair 
(Until in truth his choler had abated) 
That bound the foreheads of the Spanish 
fair, 
And sunn'd him often 'neath a warm full eye, 
And wish'd — but this was seldom, by the bye. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 



441 



XLIX. 

lie wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look 
' Divine, and her right royal figure, graced 
With beauty intellectual (like a book 

Well bound and written in the finest taste, 
Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,) 

Her white arm, and her undulating waist, 
Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran 
And lost the race (a woman should) to man. 

L. 

But in his lonely moments he would dream 
Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest 

Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam 
Of the sad truth would come and break his 
rest, 

And from his pillow he would rise and scream : 
This was a sort of night-mare, at the best. 

For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet, 

And raked and drank instead of being quiet. 

LI. 

He thought of her so young, and oh I so pale. 
And Hke a lily which the storms have bent 

Unto the dust : then would he swear and rail 
That 'twas impossible and never meant 

That girls should die for love : an idle tale. 
And by some moody imp of slumber sent 

To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed 

Is understood in Spain by all — who read. 

^ LII. 

Whate'er it was — presentiment (which is 
A sort of silent prophecy, some say, 

In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss) 
Or not, he could not drive the thought away ; 

Then — 'twas a passing fancy — where she his, 
How gently would he soothe her dying day — 

He swore she should not die — (when folks are 
amorous 

They're frequently absurd as well as clamorous.) 

LIII. 

When once his Spanish head had got this notion. 
It stuck upon his brain just like birdhme. 

And cured him without either pill or potion, 
Bleeding or balm, in no (or little) time ; 

Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean, 
Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme, 

And every stanza (none are known to fame) 

Did finish somehow with Aurora's name. 

LIV. 

And often to a grotto did he hie 

Which in a lone and distant forest stood. 
Just like a wood-nymph's haunt ; and he would 

He 
. Beneath the cover of its arch so rude, 
For there when the August sun had mounted 

high. 
And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood, 
The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen, 
And kiss'd the leaves and boughs of tender green. 

LV. 

And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast 
^ack a perfuming sigh, and rustling roU'd 
56 



Its virgin branches till they moved at last 
The neighbouring tree, and the great forest old 

Did homage to the zephyr as he past : 
And gently to and fro the fruits of gold 

Sway'd in the air, and scarcely with a sound 

The beeches shook their dark nuts to the ground 

LVI. 

Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd 
A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull, 

Wherein the many- colour' d pebbles glow'd, 
And sparkled through its waters beautiful. 

And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode, 
And on its grassy margin you might cull 

Flowers and healing plants : a hermit spot, 

And, once seen, never to be quite forgot. 

LVII. 
Our lover, Don Diego do Montilla, 

In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz ; 
Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla, 

Saint Lucar — Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is 
Not now in fashion) — danced the SequidiUa, 

Sometimes with castanets, to please the ladies, 
Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters, 
Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) 
their daughters. 

LVIII. 

They used to say, " My poor Theresa's grown 
Lately quite pale and grave, poor dear ; and 
she 

Has lost all appetite" — and then they'd moan 
And wipe their eyes, where tears were sure to 
be. 

And leave their daughters with the Don, alone, 
To be cured by sea-air — and gallantry. 

The Don was satisfied, and never gazed 

Or talk'd of love : the girls were quite amazed. 

LIX. 

They look'd and sigh'd, as girls can look and 
sigh 
When they want husbands, or when gossips 
tell 
That they shall have a husband six feet high 

(Though five feet nine or ten might do as weH,> 
With curly hair, Greek nose, and sweet black 
eye. 
And other things on which I cannot dwell : 
'Twas useless : he was puzzling o'er some 

rhyme. 
Or thinking of Aurora all the time. 

LX. 

Ah, poor Aurora ! — she is gone where never 
Hate, passion, envy, grief can touch her more : 

And with her love, beside that famed river 
That lashes with its waves the haunted shore 

(Class'd with those radiant spirits who did ever 
Act nobly here, until — the play was o'er,) 

She wanders in her long probation, till 

Death shall decay, and Sin and Time be still. 

LXL 

She faded Hke the soft and summer light 
That mingles gently with the darkness, and 



442 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Seems woo'd not conquer'd by the coming night, 
Meeting his dim embrace but not command, 

Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight 
On mockeries of the past alone is strained. 

Thus Jove, drawn out in all Correggio's charms. 

Wraps the sweet lo in his shadowy arms. 

LXII. 

Alas ! she was so young — but Death has no 
Compassion on the young more than the old, — 

She wore a patient look, but free from woe 
Unto the last ('tis thus the story's told,) 

She never look'd reproachful — peevish, though 
Her lady sister would not seldom scold, 

Because the girl had fancied her old lover ; 

For none could any other cause discover. 

LXIII. 

O, melancholy Love! amidst thy fears, 
Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein 

Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears, — 
The pride of sorrow that will not complain-*- 

The exultation that in after years 
The lovedgione will discover — and in vain, 

How much the heart silently in its cell 

Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell. 

LXIV. 

Else — Wherefore else doth lovely woman keep 
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze 

Hidden, her struggling passion — wherefore weep 
In grief that never while it flows allays 

Those tumults in the bosom buried deep, 
And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays. 

Creation's sweetest riddle ! — yet, remain 

,Tust as thou art — man's only worthy gain. 

LXV. 

And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah ! what hadst 
thou 

Done to the archer blind, that he should dart 
His cruel shafts till thou wast forced to bow 

In bitter anguish, ay, endure the smart 
The more because thou worest a smiling brow 

While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart? 
Yet jeer her not : if 'twere a folly, she 
Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty. 

LXVI. 

Oft would she sit and look upon the sky. 
When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay 

Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh 
That come hke music at the close of day 

Trembling amongst the orange blossoms, and die 
As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay, 

Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze 

Was brighter than belongs to dying days. 

LXVII. 

And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush, 
A clear transparent colour sate awhile : 

'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's 
blush. 
And 'round her mouth there play'd a gentle 
smile. 

Which though at first it might your terrors hush. 
It could not, though it strove, at last beguile ; 

And her hand shook, and then rose the blue vein 

Branching about in ail its windings plain. 



LXVIIL 

The girl was dying. Youth and beauty — all 
Men love or women boast of was decaying ; 

And one by one fife's finest powers did fall 
Before the touch of death, who seein'd de- 
laying. 

As though he'd not the heart at once to call 
The maiden to his home. At last, arraying 

Himself in softest guise, he came: she sigh'd, 

And, smiUng as though her lover whisper'd, died. 

LXIX. 
Diego — though it seem as he could change 

From love to love at pleasure — ^be it said 
Unto his honour, he did never range 

Again : I should have written that he fled 
To her (some people thought this wondrous 
strange) 

At the first news of danger — She was dead. 
One silly woman said her heart was b-roke. — 
He look'd and listen' d, but he never spoke. 

LXX. 

He saw her where she lay in silent state, 
Cold and as white as marble: and her eye, 

Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate, 
Was — after the fashion of mortafity. 

Closed up for ever ; e'en the smiles which late 
None could withstand, were gone ; and there 
did lie 

(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil) 

By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale. 

LXXI. 
Diego stood beside the coffin lid 

And gazed awhile upon her : then he bent 
And kiss'd her, and did — 'twas grief's folly, bid 

Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant 
To follow quickly ; then his face he hid. 

And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant 
In mute and idle anguish : not a breath 
Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death, 

LXXII. 
At last they drew him like a child, away ; 

And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead, 
Placing her sweet acts out in kind array. 
And mourn'd that one so gracious should have 
fled 
As 'twere before her time ; though she would 
say, 
Poor girl (and often to that talk she led,) 
That to die early was a happy lot. 
And, cheering, said she should be "soon forgot." 

LXXIII. 

She left one letter for her love : they gave 

The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told 
How when she found that medicine could not 
save 
And love had come too late, she grew more 
bold. 
And bade, when she was quiet in her grave 
(I think the phrase was " when her hand wa» 
cold,") 
That they should give that letter to the Lord 
Diego, her first love ; or some such word. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 



443 



LXXIV. 

None heard the sad contents ; he read it through 
And through, and wept and ponder' d on each 
page. 

At last, a gentle melancholy grew. 
And touch'd, Hke sorrow at its second stage. 

His eye with languor, and contrived to strew 
His hair with silver ere his middle age : 

But for the fiery passion which alone 

Had stamped his youth with folly, — it was gone. 

LXXV. 

Some years he lived: he lived in solitude, 
And scarcely quitted his ancestral home, 

Though many a friend and many a lady woo'd 
Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam 

Beyond the neighbouring hamlet's church-yard 
rude; 
And there the stranger still, on one low tomb, 

May read '' Aurora ;^^ whether the name he 
drew 

From mere conceit of grief or not, none knew. 

LXXVI. 

P'rhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past : 
Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive 

Themselves with words, until they grow at last 
Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve : 

Such madness in its wiser mood will cast. 
Making its fond credulity believe 

Things unsubstantial. 'Twas — no matter what — 

Something to hallow that lone burial spot. 

LXXVII. 

He grew familiar with the bird ; the brute 
Knew well its benefector, and he'd feed 

And make acquaintance with the fishes mute, 
And, like the Thracian Shepherd, as we read, 

Drew, with the music of his stringed lute, 
Behind him winged things, and many a tread 

And tramp of animal : and in his hall 

He was a Lord indeed, beloved by all. 

Lxxvin. 

In a high solitary turret where 

None were admitted would he muse, when 
first 
The young day broke, perhaps because he there 

Had in his earhest infancy been nursed. 
Or that he felt more pure the morning air. 

Or loved to see the great Apollo burst 
From out his cloudy bondage, and the night 
Hurry away before the conquering light. 

LXXIX. 

But oftener to a gentle lake that lay 
Cradled within a forest's bosom, he 

Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away, 
And, when the inland breeze was fresh and 
free. 

There would he loiter all the livelong day, 
Tossing upon the waters listlessly. 

The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer 

Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear. 



LXXX. 

It was a soothing place : the summer hours 
Pass'd there in quiet beauty; and at night 

The moon ran searching thro' the woodbine 
bowers. 
And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright, 

O'er lemon blossoms, and faint myrtle flowers, 
And there the west wind often took his flight 

When heaven's clear eye was closing, while 
above 

Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love. 

LXXXI. 

How sweet it is to see that courier star 
(Which like the spirit of the twilight shines) 

Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar. 
Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines, 

Until his mistress in her brighter car 
Enters the sky, and then his light declines : 

But sweetest when in lonely spots we see 

The gentle, watchful, amorous deity. 

LXXXII. 

He comes more lovely than the Hours : his look 
Sheds calm refreshing Ught, and eyes that 
burn 

With glancing at the sun's so radiant book. 
Unto his softer page with pleasure turn : 

'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook. 
Or the soft weUing of a Naiad's urn. 

After the sounding of the vast sea- waves. 

'Tis after jealous fears the faith that saves. 

LXXXIII. 

Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond 
vows; 

Then like a whisper music seems to float 
Around us : then from out the thicket boughs 

Cometh the nightingale's so tender note. 
And then the young girl listens, and allows 

(Moved by the witching of the sweet bird's 
throat) 
To passion its first kiss : — but of these things 
He thought not in his moody wanderings. 

LXXXIV. 

'Twas solitude he loved where'er he strayed. 
No danger daunted and no pastime drew. 

And ever on that fair heart-broken maid 
(Aurora) who unto the angels flew 

Away so early, with grief unallayed 
He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue 

Would look for shapes, till at times before him 
she 

'Rose like a beautiful reality. 

LXXXV. 

— But he hath passed away, and there remains 
Scarcely the shadow of his name : the sun. 

The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains 
Fall now ahke upon him : he hath done 

With Life and cast away its heavy chains, 
And in his place another spirit may run 

Its course (thus live, love, languish, and thus 
die,) 

Through every maze of dim mortaUly. 



444 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



LXXXVI. 

■ One day he came not at his usual hour, > 
(He had long been declining,) and his old 

Kind mother sought him in his lonely tower, 
And there she found him lying, pale and cold : 

Her son was dead, and love had lost his power ; 
And then she felt that all her days were told. 

She laid him in his grave, and when she died 

A stranger buried her by Diego's side. 



GYGES 



Lydian measures. 

Dryden. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This Story of Gyges, if I may so designate the 
slight thread of narrative that runs through these 
stanzas, comes from Herodotus. It is Englished 
in "Painter's Palace of Pleasure," and is there 
prefaced by the following moral. 

"That husband, which is beautiful with a 
comely and honest wife, whose rare excellencie 
doth surpasse others, as wel in lineaments, pro- 
porcion, and feature of bodie, as in inwarde quali- 
ties of minde ; if he cannot retaine in the secrecie 
and silence of his breast, that excellinge gifte and 
benefite, is worthy to be inaugured with a laurel 
crown of fohe." — Vol. I. Nov. 6. 

I have imposed the name of " Lais" upon the 
queen of Candaules, who is without a name in the 
Story. 

There is another account (in Plato, I believe,) 
of this same Gyges and his famous ring, which 
rendered him invisible, and by means of which 
he gained access to the Lydian Queen. This 
nowever would have been at variance with the 
moral, and was excluded. 



III. 



Love 



I. 

I've often thought that if I had more leisure 
I'd try my hand upon that pleasant rhyme, 

The old " ottava rima" (quite a treasure 
To poets who can make their triplets chime 

Smoothly) : 'tis equally adapt to pleasure, 
To war, wit, love, or grief, or mock-sublime : 

And yet — when pretty woman's in the case, 

The hues go tripping vdth a better grace. 

II. 
I've but small wit, and therefore will not venture 

On wit ; and fighting — 'tis a noisy game ; 
From this too I'm bound down by my indenture 

(At least I swear I am, and that's the same): 
Then grief — I scarcely ever think she meant her 

Madonna face — no 'twould not do: of fame 
Or pleasure I know little to rehearse, 
But Love is shaped and fit for every verse. 



oh ! he breathes and rambles 'round the 
world 
An idol and idolater : he flies 
Touching with passing beauty, ringlets curl'd, 

Ripe lips, and bosoms white, and starry eyes, 
And wheresoe'er his colours are unfurl'd 

Full many a young and panting spirit hies. 
His ranks are raw, for all are volunteers : 
Some fired with hope, and plenty plagued with 
fears. 

IV. 

He is the sweetest, yet the fiercest passion, 
That ever soothed or scarred the human heart, 

Worshipped and jeered by all in every nation. 
And hugged and bidden, while he's hugged, 
depart. 

Yet, to say truth, if I should have occasion 
Again to know him, I should beg his dart 

Might be a little blunted ; nay, before, 

'Twas tipp'dwith gall — it should be sugar'do'er. 

V. 

And I v(?ould have this dart held by a hand 
That would pour balm upon the wound it gave : 

Like that " white wonder" of a foreign land, 
Whose mistress in the silver moonhght gave 

Tokens of early love, and did command 

One heart's devotion — but I'm getting grave : 

That damsel's sweetheart sadden'd, to be brief, 

And wash'd down ('twas with poison) all his 
grief. 

VI. 

I'd have her eyes dark as the summer night. 
When Dian sleeps, and fair the planets roll 
Along their golden journeys: 'tis a sight 
That comes like — like — I mean that, on the 
whole. 
It touches and, as 'twere, transports one quite, 

And makes one feel that one must have a soul; 
And then our wits go wandering from their 

ways, 
Wild, and " wool-gathering," as the proverb 
says. 

VIL 

So much for eyes, and now for smiles. A smile 
I hold to be like balm (the sting's the tongue:) 

It soothes the cankers of the heart awhile, 
And is a sort of silent music flung 

(Or sunbeam) o'er the lips, and can beguile 
The very d — 1 ; pshaw ! he never clung 

To woman's hps : I blush and blush again. 

'Twas all mistake : he "puts up" with the men. 

VIII. 

I never saw a fault in woman yet : 

Their bodies and their minds are full of grace ; 
Sometimes indeed their tongue — but I forget. 

And 'faith that runs a very pretty race. 
And doth bewilder one hke wine, or debt, 

Or whist, when in an ancient partner's face 
We read supreme contempt, and hear her groan, 
And feel that all the blunders are our own. 



GYGES 



445 



IX. 
This is vexatious I must own, and so 

Are many things if but the mind were given 
To make the most of trifles ; but I go 

Gently and jogging on (I hope) to heaven, 
Sometimes in mirth, but oft'ner touch'd with 
woe 

(For I have somewhat of the mortal leaven,) 
And string on rainy days an idle rhyme, 
And kill the present to feed future time. 

X. 

Now to my tale, which I would fain indite 
(Though many a living bard can scribble better) 

Without deploying to the left and right. 
To see how others touch this style and metre ; 

I'll even keep Lord Byron out of sight. 
By the bye, Lord B. and I were school'd to- 
gether 

At Harrow, where, as here, he has a name : 

I I'm not even on the list of fame. 

XI. 

But I am quite impatient. 0, my muse ! 

If muse I have, hie thee across the sea, 
And where in plenteous drops the famous "dews 

Of Castahe" fall, beg a few for me ; 
A laurel branch too: sure they'll not refuse, 

(The sisters) — if they do, then strip the tree, 
And we will cultivate the laurel here, 
And advertise for claimants far and near. 

XII. 

Bards have a pleasant method, I must say, 
Of mixing up their songs in this lax age. 
Now, sweet and sharp and luscious dash'd with 
gay 
(Like Christmas puddings, laurell'd,) are the 
rage ; 
Some stuff huge pamphlets in the duckling way, 
(With "thoughts") and now and then leave 
out " the sage;^^ 
Some mark their tales (like pork) with lines and 

crosses ; 
Some hide things over-done with piquant sauces. 

XIII. 

Some hash the orts of others, and re-hash : 
Some rub the edge off jokes — to make 'em fair ; 

Some cut up characters (that's rather rash. 
And more than serious people well can bear :) 

In short, there's many a way to make a dash : 
Now, if you write incog. — tJiat has an air 

(Yet men may, as I have, for this good reason :) 

Then, Love's a thing that's never out of season. 

XIV. 

Love is a pure and evanescent thing. 

And, when its delicate plumes are soil'd, it 
dies. 
There is a story of a Lydian king, 

Candaules, who it seems thought otherwise : 
\ loose, uxorious monarch, passioning 

For what he had already. Husbands wise ! 
Attend the moral of my curious story, 
?or I intend to lay it now before ye. 



XV. 
Candaules king of Lydia had a wife, 
Beautiful Lais : she was such as I 
(Had she not ta'en her silly husband's life, 
Which shows a certain taste for cruelty) 
Could love ; — but no I we might have had some 
strife. 
And she was rather cold and somewhat 
"high," 
And I detest that stalking, marble grace, 
Which makes one think the heart has left its 
place. 

XVI. 

Now King Candaules was an amorous sot, 
A mere, loose, vulgar simpleton, d'ye see ; 

Bad to be sure, yet of so hard a lot 

Not quite deserving, surely : and that she 

All old ties should so quickly have forgot 
Seems odd. We talk of " woman's constancy 

And love" — yet Lais' lord was but a fool, 

And she's but the exception, not the rule. 

Ixvn. 

She had the stature of a queen : her eyes 
Were bright and large, but all too proud to 
rove, 

And black, which I have heard some people 
prize ; 
Lightly along the ground she deign'd to move, 

Gazed at and woo'd by every wind that flies. 
And her deep bosom seem'd the throne of love : 

And yet she was, for my poor taste, too grand, 

And likely for " obey" to read " command." 

XVIII. 

Give me less faultless woman, so she might 
Be all my own, trusted at home and far, 

With whom the world might be forgotten quite, 
The country's scandal, and the city's jar, 

And in whose deep blue eyes Love's tenderest 
light 
Should rise in beauty, like a vesper star. 

On my return at evening, ay, and shine 

On hearts I prized. By Jove ! 'twould be divine. 

XIX. 
Oh ! we would turn some pleasant page together, 

And 'plaud the wit, the tale, the poet's tropes. 
Or, wandering in the early summer weather, 

Talk of the past mischance and future hopes, 
Or ride at times (and ithat would save shoe- 
leather,) 

For nought so well with nervous humours copes 
As riding; i. e. taken by degrees ; 
It warms the blood, and saves all doctor's fees. 

XX. 

Candaules' court was much like courts in general 

In times of peace, that is, 'twas pretty gay : 
To my taste better much than when the men are 
all 
Busy in horrid fighting far away, 
With scarce a sound but drums beating the " ge- 
nerale ;" 
Yes — now and then, when the wild trumpets 
bray. 



446 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



And their rich voice goes riding on the wind 
Like mounted war, but leaves no track behind. 

XXI. 

There was a Lydian boy who ' ' pleased at court ;" 
A youngster such as girls would smile to see, 

Excellent in each brave and gentle sport, 

War and the chase, the song, the dance, was 
he; 

But scribbling tender verses was his forte. 
And Gyges was quite famed for modesty, 

And when the king would praise his queen, the 
youth 

Yawn'd, in a way provoking; 'twas in truth. 

XXIL 

And yet he was not altogether cold 

(This I conclude, the story does not tell ;) 

I mean, he was not sheepish, nor too bold. 
Nor did he swear, nor languish like a belle : 

Pshaw ! had I l^ad my wits I might have told 
This in five words ; he pleased the women well. 

They said indeed at times, "a little bolder ;" 

But this they knew would change when he grew 
older. 

XXIIL 

There was a mark on Lais' swan-hke breast 
(A purple flower with its leaf of green,) 

Like that the Itahan saw when on the rest 
He stole of the unconscious Imogene, 

And bore away the dark fallacious test 

Of what was not, although it might have been, 

And much perplex'd Leonatus Posthumus : 

In truth he might have puzzled one of us. 

XXIV. 

The king told Gyges of the purple flower 

(It chanced to be the flower the boy liked 
most ;) 

It has a scent as though Love, for its dower. 
Had on it all his odorous arrows tost : 

For though the Rose has more perfuming power. 
The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost. 

And takes up so much trouble to discover) 

Stands first with most : but always with a lover. 

XXV. 

He blush'd and hsten'd — panted like a fawn 
That's just escaped the fraudful hunter's range. 

And his eyes sparkled like approaching morn, 
And on his cheek he felt the colour change 

Until he trembled — and the blush was gone : 
His brain was stagger' d with a notion strange : 

He sighed to see, though but for once, the flower; 

The monarch laugh'd, but 'twas a dangerous 
hour. 

XXVI. 

In the first rushing of that burning tide 

Hath many a glorious spirit been swept away ; 

Heroes, bards, kings have been brain-struck and 
died 
When the first burst of love, in full array 

Hath shown the world at once its pomp and pride 
Of beauty, starting into sudden day ; 

Hence men restored to sight by surgic toil 

Should learn to court the shade, at least awhile. 



XXVII. 

Next day he (Gyges) led the talk. He said 

He thought it " curious" nature ever should 
Imprint an useless mark — that he was bred 
To think what seem'd most sportive in her 
mood, 
Was for a purpose : then he hung his head. 
And o'er his fine face flush'd the eloquent 
blood. 
And the king's broad and boastful stare he 

shunn'd : 
He look'd hke a man in debt, who had been 
dunn'd. 

XXVIII. 

Candaules (shame upon the silly king !) 
Vow'd that the curious boy this mark should 
see. 

He saw — (In faith 'twould be a pretty thing 
If even kings could take this liberty) — 

He saw her in her beauty, fluttering 
From pleasure as she glanced her smiling eye 

On the broad mirror which displayed a breast 

Unlaced, where Jove himself might sigh to rest. 

XXIX. 

The boy came (guided by the king) to where, 
In the most deep and silent hour of night. 

Stood Lais : quite unloosed, her golden hair 
Went streaming all about like lines of light. 

And, through the lattice-leaves gusts of soft air 
Sigh'd like perfume, and touched her shoulders 
white. 

And o'er her tresses and her bosom play'd. 

Seeming to love each place o'er which they 
stray' d. 

XXX. 

Then sank she on her couch and drew aside 
The silken curtains and let in the moon. 

Which trembling ran around the chamber wide. 
Kissing and flooding the rich flowers which 
June 

Had fann'd to life, and which in summer pride 
'Rose like a queen's companions. Lais soon, 

Touch'd by the scene, look'd as she had forgot 

The world : the boy stood rooted to the spot. 

XXXI. 

He stood, with beating pulse, and widen'd eyes, 
Like one struck dumb by some magician's 
charm. 

Listening to the low music of her sighs, 
And gazing on her white and rounded arm ; 

At last the lady motion'd as to rise. 

When it occurr'd to him there might be harm 

Unless he left (and quickly left) the place : 

He moved, and then she met him, face to face. 

XXXII. 

It was the lady's turn to wonder now. 

She wonder' d, but her wonder soon subsided. 
And scorn and anger flash'd across her brow; 

At length, she grew more calm, and (perhapa 
guided 
By pity for his youth) she ask'd him how — 

How a young gentleman hke him, who pride<3 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 



447 



Himself upon his modesty, could call 

A.t such an hour : — he blush' d and told her all. 

XXXIII. 
She swore she would have vengeance for the 
wrong, 
Double and deadly vengeance — and she had. 
His majesty soon after took that long 
Journey whence none but ghosts, or things as 
bad, 
Return : 'twas said his wine grew mighty strong, 

And that 'twas handed by this curious lad, 
(Gyges) whom Lais fancied from that day. 
And made Lord of herself and Lydia. 

XXXIV. 
That king ! he was the last of all his race — ' 

A race of kings and heroes ; and he lay 
Helpless and dead: his smile gave power and 
place 

Honour and wealth and joy, but yesterday. 
But poison had swept the smile from off his face, 

And his cold limbs went floating far away, 
Stript of the tomb wherein he should have slept : 
He lived unhonour'd, and he died unwept. 

XXXV. 

It is a chilling thing to see, as I 

Have seen, a man go down into the grave, 
Without a tear, or e'en an alter'd eye: 

Oh ! sadder far than when fond women rave. 
Or children weep or aged parents sigh 

O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save 
In vain ; man's heart is soothed by every tone 
Of pity, saying he's " not quite alone." 

XXXVI. 

I saw a pauper once, when I was young, 
Borne to his shallow grave : the bearers trod 

Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung. 
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod : 

On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung : 
Methought the prayer which gave him to his 
God 

Was coldly said : — then all, passing away, 

Left the scarce- coffin' d wretch to quick decay. 

XXXVII. 
It was an autumn evening, and the rain 

Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did 
shriek 
And call'd the deluging tempest back again, 
The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did 
creak. 
And through the black clouds ran a lightning vein, 

And then the flapping raven came to seek 
Its home : its flight was heavy, and its wing 
Seem'd weary with along day's wandering. 

XXXVIII. 

How the frail pair lived on I know not : I 
Have but subdued Candaules to my strain. 

It was enough for me that he should die. 

And having kiU'd the king, why — that's the 
main : 

So, for the moral of the story, try 
tTurniiig to the beginning once again,) 



I To trace it in the quaint and antique text ; 
I You'll find the meaning not at all perplex'd. 

I XXXIX. 

I Reader, this trifle's ended : I have told 

The tale and shown the moral " in a way :" 
Yet doth my page another truth unfold. 

Namely, that women of the present day 
Are not so bad, nor half, as those of old. 

Then, cast not thou the lesson quite away. 
That — as they're better than they were before. 
Why, men should love 'em {wisely) more and 
more. 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 

IN THREE PARTS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The story of " Marcian Colonna" is fictitious ; 
but the catastrophe was suggested by a paper 
which appeared in Blackwood's Edinburgh Ma- 
gazine, entitled, "An Extract from Gosschen's 
Diary." My original intention was to paint the 
fluctuations of a fatalist's miod,' — touched with 
insanity, — alternately raised by kindness and de- 
pressed by neglect or severity, — ameliorated by 
the contemplation of external nature, and gene- 
rally influenced by the same causes which operate 
on more healthful temperaments. This intention 
has been in some measure departed from, and the 
story gradually took the form in which it now 
stands. The incidents were invented : yet, it 
may be as well to state that when the tale was 
near its completion, I read, in Forsythe's Travels, 
the account of a Princess PignateUi, whose mis- 
fortunes closely resemble those of the heroine of 
Marcian Colonna. 



PART I. 



Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 

And the mind's canker, in its savage mood. 

Lament of Tasso. 



I. 
For ever and for ever shalt thou be 
Unto the lover and the poet dear. 
Thou land of sunlit skies and fountains clear, 
Of temples, and grey columns, and waving 

woods, 
And mountains, from whose rifts the burning 

floods 
Rush in bright tumult to the Adrian sea: 
O thou romantic land of Italy I 
Mother of painting and sweet sounds ! — though 

now 
The laurels are all torn from ofT thy brow — 



448 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Yet, though the shape of Freedom now no more 
May walk in beauty on thy piny shore, 
Shall I, upon whose soul thy poets' lays, 
And all thy songs and hundred stories, fell 
Like dim Arabian charms, break the soft spell 
That bound me to thee in thine earlier days ? 
Never, divinest Italy, — thou shalt be 
For aye the watchword of the heart to me. 

IL 

Famous thou art, and shalt be through all 
time : 
Not that because thine iron children hurled 
Like arrows o'er the conquest-stricken world. 
Their tyrannies, — but that, in a later day, 
Great spirits, and gentle too, triumphing came ; 
And, as the mighty day-star makes its way 
From darkness into light, they toward their fame 
Went, gathering splendour till they grew sublime. 

Yet first of all thy sons were they who wove 
Thy silken language into tales of love, 
And fairest far the gentle forms that shine 
In thy own poets' faery songs divine. 
O ! long as lips shall smile or pitying tears 
Rain from the eyes of beauty, — long as fears 
Or doubts or hopes shall sear or soothe the heart, 
Or flatteries softly fall on woman's ears, 
Or witching words be spoke at twilight hours, 
Or tender songs be sung in orange bowers, — 
Long as the stars, like ladies' looks, by night 
Shall shine, — more constant and almost as 

bright, — 
So long, though hidden in a foreign shroud, 
Shall Dante's mighty spirit speak aloud : 
So long the lamp of flame on Petrarch's urn 
Shall, like the light of learning, duly burn ; 
And he be loved — he with his hundred tales, 
As varying as the shadowy cloud that sails 
Upon the bosom of the April sky, 
And musical as when the waters run 
Lapsing through sylvan haunts deUciously. 
Nor may that gay romancer who hath told 
Of knight and damsel and enchantments old. 
So well, be e'er forgot ; nor he who sung 
Of Salem's holy city lost and won, 
The seer-like Tasso, who enamour' d hung 
On Leonora's beauty, and became 
Her martyr, — blasted by a mingled flame. 

The masters of the world have vanished, and 
Thy gods have left or lost their old command ; 
The painter and the poet now have fled. 
And slaves usurp the seat of Caesar dead : 
Prison and painted palace hast thou still. 
But filled with creatures whom mere terrors kill; 
Afiraid of life and death, they live and die 
Eternally, and slay their own weak powers, 
And hate the past, and dread the future time, 
And while they steal from pleasure droop to 

crime, 
Plucking the leaves from all the rosy hours : 
Alas, alas ! beautiful Italy ! 
—Yet he who late hath risen like a star 
Among us (now by the Venice waves afar 
He loiters with his song,) hath writ of thee. 
And shared his laurell'd immortality 
With thy decaying fortunes. Murmur not. 



For me, with my best skill will I rehearse 
My story, for it speaks of thine and thee : 
It is a sad and legendary verse, 
And thus it runs : 

III. 

There is a lofty spot 
Visible amongst the mountains Appenine, 
Where once a hermit dwelt, not yet forgot 
He or his famous miracles divine ; 
And there the convent of Laverna stands 
In solitude, built up by saintly hands, 
And deem'd a wonder in the elder time. 
Chasms of the early world are yawning there. 
And rocks are seen, craggy, and vast, and bare. 
And many a dizzy precipice sublime, 
And caverns dark as Death, where the wild air 
Rushes from all the quarters of the sky : 
Above, in all his old regality, 
The monarch eagle sits upon his throne. 
Or floats upon the desert winds, alone. 
There, belted 'round and 'round by forests drear, 
Black pine, and giant beech, and oaks that rear 
Their brown diminished heads like shrubs be- 
tween, 
And guarded by a river that is seen 
Flashing and wandering through the dell below, 

Laverna stands. It is a place of woe. 

And 'midst its cold dim aisles and cells of gloom, 
The pale Franciscan meditates his doom ;— 
An exile from his kind, save some sad few 
(Like him imprison'd and devoted,) who, 
Deserting their high natures for the creed 
A bigot fashioned in his weaker dreams, 
Left love and life (yet love is life, indeed,) 
And all the wonders of the world, — its gleams 
Of joy, of sunshine, fair as those which spring 
From the great poet's high imagining, 
Sounds, and gay sights, and v/oman' s words which 

bless 
And carry on their echoes happiness, — 
Left all that man inherits, and fell down 
To worship in the dust, a demon's crown: 
For there a phantom of a fearful size, 
Shaped out of shadow and cloud, and nursed in 

pain, 
And born of doubt and sorrow, and of the brain 
The ever evil spirit mocks man's eyes ; 
And they who worship it are cold and wan, 
Timid and proud, envying while they despise 
The wealth and wishes of their fellow man. 

IV. 

Amongst the squalid crowd that hngered there. 
Mocking with empty forms and hopeless prayer 
Their bounteous God, was one of princely race, — 
The young Colonna, in his form and face 
Honouring the mighty stem from which he 

sprung. 
Born amidst Roman ruins, he had hunp 
O'er every tale of sad antiquity, 
And on its fallen honours, once so high, 
Had mused Uke one who hoped. His soul had 

gone 
Into the depth of ages, and had brought 
From thence strange things and tidings, such as 

none 
Or few e'er dream of now ; and then he thought 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 



449 



That somewhat of the spirit old might be 
Still Uving in the land — perhaps might haunt 
The temples still'; and often silently 
He wander'd through the night, and loved to 

hear 
The winds come wailing by the tombs, and see 
The thistle stagger and the ivy sere 
Shake in the blast — she who triumphantly 
Hangs her black tresses, like a rustling pall, 
O'er grave and arch alike, and preys on all. 

He was the youngest of his house, and from 
His very boyhood a severer gloom 
Than such as marks the child, gathered and 

grew 
Around him, Uke an overshadowing veil ; 
And yet at times — (often) when some sad tale 
Was told, from out that seeming darkness flew 
Flashes of mind and passion, and his eye 
Burned with the lightning of his brain, and then 
He spoke more proudly ; yet, by many men 
(Who some ancestral taint had not forgot,) 
Marcian was shunned from very infancy, 
And mark'd and charter'd for the madman's lot. 



At home he met neglect, and fear abroad, 
And so life grew, early, a heavy load. 
Studious he was, and on the poet's page 
Had pored beyond the feehng of his age, 
And v/ar, and high exploit, and knightly worth, 
And fiery love, and dark and starry themes 
Fed, with distemper'd food, the aching dreams 
That haunted all his hours, and gave birth 
To thirst of enterprise and wishes vain, 
Which died as they arose, — in pride and pain. 

For he was doom'd by a father's will to wear 
The sullen cowl, and was forbid to share 
The splendour of an elder brother's fate : 
And therefore came distrust and bitter hate ; 
And envy, like the serpent's twining coil. 
Ran 'round his heart, and fixed its station 

there ; 
And through his veins did lurking fevers boil. 
Until they burst in madness ; — then his mind 
Became, at last, as is that languid wind 
That floats across the calm blue sea, and falls 
And rises o'er the Cohseum's walls, 
And he like that great ruin. — In this hour 
Of misery, when the soul had lost its power. 
When memory slept, and that blank idiot air. 
More hideous than death — to which despair 
Is nothing, nor remorse — came smiling o'er 
His features, they (his cautious parents) bore 
The youth unto Laverna. By the shore 
Of the blue dashing Mediterranean seas 
They travell'd; and at times when the swift 

breeze 
Came playing 'round his brows, a sadness crept 
Silently o'er his eye, and then he sighed 
Like one who thought, and when the soft wind 

died 
He listened to its gentle fall, and wept. 
They noted not the change, but bore him on 
Unto his convent prison, and their gold 
Stamped with the weight of truth the tale they 

■ told ; 
And there they left him to his fate, — alone. 
57 



VI. 

They left him to his prison, and then returned ; 
And festal sounds were heard, and songs vfere 

sung, 
And all around the walls were garlands hung 
As usual, and gay censers brightly burned 
In the Colonna palace. He was miss'd 
By none, and when his mother fondly kiss'd 
Her eldest born, and bade him on that day 
Devote him to the dove-eyed Julia, 
The proud Vitelli's child, Rome's paragon, 
She thought no longer of her cloistered son. 

On that same night of mirth ViteUi came 
With his fair child, sole heiress of his name, — 
She came amidst the lovely and the proud, 
Peerless ; and when she moved, the gallant 

crowd 
Divided, as the obsequious vapours light 
Divide to let the queen-moon pass by night: 
Then looks of love were seen, and many a sigh 
Was wasted on the air, and some aloud 
Talk'd of the pangs they felt and swore to die : 
She, like the sohtary rose that springs 
In the first warmth of summer days, and flings 
A perfume the more sweet because alone — • 
Just bursting into beauty, with a zone 
Half girl's, half woman's, smiled and then forgot 
Those gentle things to which she answered not. 
But when Colonna's heir bespoke her hand, 
And led her to the dance, she question' d why 
His brother joined not in that revelry : 
Careless he turn'd aside and did command 
Loudly the many instruments to sound, 
And well did that young couple tread the ground : 
Each step was lost in each accordant note, 
Which through the palace seemed that night to 

float 
As merrily, as though the Satyr-god 
With his inspiring reed (the mighty Fan,) 
Had left his old Arcadian woods, and trod 
Piping upon the shores Italian. 

Again she asked in vain : yet, as he turned 
(The brother) from her, a fierce colour burned 
Upon his cheek, and fading left it pale 
As death, and half proclaimed the guilty tale. 
— She dwelt upon that night till pity grew 
Into a wilder passion : the sweet dew 
That linger'd in her eye " for pity's sake," 
Was — (hke an exhalation in the sun) 
Dried and absorbed by love. Oh ! love can take 
What shape he pleases, and when once begun 
His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain 
The after-knowledge which his presence gives ! 
We weep or rave, but still he lives, and lives 
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain. 

VII. 

Now may we seek Colonna. When he found 
Himself a prisoner in his cell, and bound, 
And saw the eyeless skull and glass of sand 
And ghastly crucifix before him, he 
'Rose with a sudden shriek and burst the band 
That tied him to his pallet, and stood free : 
Not thus alone he stood, for the wild shock 
Darted upon his brain and did unlock 



450 



BARRY CORNWALL 



The gates of memory, and from his soul 
Gradual he felt the clouds of madness roll, 
And with his mind's redemption every base 
And dariier passion fled — shrunk 'fore its light, 
As at the glance of morning shrinks the night. 
Not suddenly, — but slow, from day to day. 
The shadow from his spirit passed away, 
And sometimes would return at intervals. 
As blight upon the opening blossom falls. 
— And then he pondered in his prison place, 
On many an awful theme ne'er conn'd before ; 
Of darkness and decay, and of that shore 
Upon whose shadowy strand pale spirits walk, 
'Tis said, for many ages ; and would talk 
Right eloquent with every monk who there 
Boasted of penitence, and felt despair, 
In whose dull eye Hope shone not, and whose 

breath 
Was one unvaried tale of Death and Death. 

VIII. 
But in his gentler moments he would gaze, 
With something of the love of earlier days, 
On the far prospects, and on summer morns 
Would wander to a high and distant peak. 
Against whose rocky bosom the clouds break 
In showers upon the forests. It adorns 
The landscape, and from out a pine-wood high, 
Springs like a craggy giant to the sky. 
Here, on this summit of the hills, he loved 
To lie and look upon the world below; 
And almost did he wish at times to know 
How in that busy world man could be moved 
To live for ever — what delights were there 
To equal the fresh sward and odorous air, 
The valleys and green slopes, and the sweet call 
Of bird to bird, what time the shadows fall 
Toward the west : — yet something there must be 
He felt, and that he now desired to see. 

As once he pondered there, on the far world. 
And on himself, like a lone creature hurled 
From all its pleasures — its temptations, all. 
Over his heart there fell, like a dark pall, 
The memory of the past : he thought and thought, 
Till in his brain a busier spirit wrought. 
And Nature then unlock'd with her sweet smile 
The icy barrier of his heart, and he 
Returned unto his first humanity. 
He felt a void, and much he grieved the while, 
Within his heart, as though he wish'd to share 
A joy he knew not with another mind ; 
Wild were his thoughts, but every wish refined. 
And pure as waters of the mountain-spring : 
Was it the birth of Love ? — did he unbind 
(Like the far scent of wild flowers blossoming) 
His perfumed pinions in that rocky lair, 
To save a heart so young from perishing there ? — 

IX. 

Some memory had he of VitelH's child, 
But gathered where he now remembered not ; 
Perhaps, like a faint dream or vision wild 
(Which, once beheld, may never be forgot,) 
She floated in his fancy ; and when pain 
And fevers hot came thronging round his brain. 
Her shape and voice fell like a balm upon 
His sad and dark imagination. 



A gentle minister she was, when he 

Saw forms, 'twas said, which often silently 

Passed by his midnight couch, and felt at times 

Strange horror for imaginary crimes 

(Committed, or to be,) and in his walk 

Of Fate and Death, and phantom things would 

talk. 
Shrieks scared him from his sleep, and figures 

came 
On his alarm'd sight, and through the glades. 
When evening fiU'd the woods with trembling 

shades, 
Follow'd his footsteps, and a star-like flame 
Floated before his eyes palely by day, 
And glared by night and would not pass away. 
— At last his brother died. Giovanni fell 
A victim in a cause he loved too well ; 
And the Colonna prince, without his heir. 
Bethought him of the distant convent, where 
A child had been imprison' d, that he might gain 
Riches for one he better loved : — How vain, 
And idle now ! Dead was the favour'd son, 
And sad the father, — but the crime was done. 

X. 

Then Marcian sought his home. A ghastly 

gloom 
Hung over the pillars and the wrecks of Rome, 
And scarcely, as the clouds were swiftly driven 
In masses shrouding the blue face of Heaven 
Was seen, by tremulous glimpses, the pale moon, 
Who looked abroad in fear and vanished soon. 
The winds were loud amongst the ruins, where 
The wild weeds shook abroad their ragged hair, 
And sounds were heard, like sobs from some lone 

man. 
And murmuring 'tween his banks theTyberran. 
In the Colonna palace there were tears 
Flowing from aged eyes that seldom wept ; 
Their son was gone — the hope of many years 
Cold in his marble home for ever slept. 
— The father met his child: with tremulous 

grasp 
He press'd his hand, and he return'd the clasp. 
And spoke assuring words — " that he was come 
To soothe his grief and cheer his desolate 

home," — 
And then he bade him quite forget the past. 
Thus hand in hand they sat awhile ; at last 
A deep deep sob came bursting from the gloom 
That hid the far part of the palace room, 
And, after, all was silent as the grave. 
Colonna 'rose, and by the lamp that gave 
A feeble light, saw, like a shape of stone. 
His mother couching in the dust, alone : 
Her hand was clench'd, and her eye wander'd 

wild 
Like one who lost and sought (in vain) a child ; 
And now and then a smile, but not a tear, 
Told that she fancied still her darhng near ; 
And then she shook her head, cross'd her arms 
Over her breast, and turned her from the light. 
And seem'd as though she mutter'd inward 

charms, 
To scare some doubtful phantom from her sight. 
He spoke to her in vain: her heart was fill'd 
With grief, and every passion else was still' d, 
Was buried , — lost. Just as the mighty rains 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 



451 



Which, gathering, flood the valleys in the days 
Of Autumn, or as rivers when snow decays 
Sweep all things in their course, 'til nought re- 
mains 
Distinguishable, — earth, and roots, and grass, 
And stones, and casual things, a mingled mass. 
Driven onwards by the waters and o'erborne, 
'Till but the stream is seen : so they who mourn 
Deeply, and they, 'tis said, who love the best. 
In one mild mastering passion lose the rest. 

XI. 

At last the woes that wrapp'd the mother round. 
Broke and dissolved, and a serener day 
Shone on her life ; but never more the sound 
Of noisy mirth or festal music gay 
Was heard within Colonna's walls, — and yet 
A calm and pleasant circle often met. 
And the despised neglected Marcian now 
Wore the descended honours on his brow. 
Uiihke he was in boyhood, — yet so grave 
The)'- doubted sometimes if he quite forgave 
The past ; and then there play'd a moody smile 
About his mouth, and he at times would speak 
Of one with heavenly bloom upon her cheek. 
Whose vision did his convent hours beguile ; 
A phantom shape, and which in sleep still came 
And fann'd the colour of his cheek to flame. 
Sometimes has he been known to gaze afar 
Watching the coming of the evening star, 
And as it progress' d toward the middle sky. 
Like the still twilight's lonely deity. 
Would fancy that a spirit resided there, 
A gentle spirit and young, with golden hair, 
And eyes as blue as the blue dome above. 
And a voice as tender as the sound of love. 

xir. 

Some months thus pass'd among the wrecks 
of Rome, 
And seldom thought he of the fearful doom 
On which he used to ponder : still he felt 
That he alone amidst the many dwelt. 
Lonely ; but why he cared not, or forgot 
The jibings cast upon his early lot. 
—One morning as he lay half listlessly 
Within the shadow of a column, where 
His forehead met such gusts of cooling air 
As the bright summer knows in Italy, 
A gorgeous cavalcade went thundering by. 
Dusty and worn with travel : as it pass'd 
Some said the great Count hadreturn'd, at last, 
From his long absence upon foreign lands ; 
'Twas told that many countries he had seen, 
(He and his lady daughter) and had been 
A long time journeying on the Syrian sands, 
And visited holy spots, and places where 
The Christian roused the Pagan from his lair. 
And taught him charity and creeds divine. 
By spiUing his bright blood in Palestine. 

XIIL 

Vitelli and his child return'd at last, 
After some years of wandering. Julia 
Had been betrothed and widow'd : she had pass'd 
From bondage into liberty, and they 
• Who knew the bitter husband she had wed. 
Rejoiced to learn (hat he indeed was dead. 



She had been sacrificed in youth, to one 
She never loved ; but he she loved was gone, 
And so it matter' d not : 'tis true some tears 
Stain' d her pale cheek at times in after years, 
And much unkindness from the man on whom 
She had bestow'd her beauty, drew a gloom 
Around her face, and curtain' d up in shade 
The eyes that once like sunny spirits play'd. 
But he was dead : — Sailing along the sea. 
His pleasure barque was gliding pleasantly, 
When sudden winds arose, and mighty waves 
Were put in motion, and deep yawning graves 
Opened on every side with hideous roar : 
He scream' d and struggled, and was seen no 

more. 
This was the tale. — Orsini's titles fell 
Upon a student youth, scarce known before, 
Who took the princely name and wore it well. 

XIV. 

And Julia saw the youth she loved again : 
But he was now the great Colonna's heir. 
And she whom he had left so young and fair, 
A few short years ago, was grown, with pain 
Of thoughts unutter'd (a heart-eating care,) 
Pale as a statue. When he met her first 
He gazed and gasp'd as though his heart would 

burst. 
Her figure came before him hke a dream 
Reveal' d at morning, and a sunny gleam 
Broke in upon his soul and lit his eye 
With something of a tender prophecy. 
And was she then the shape he oft had seen, 
By day and night, — she who had such strange 

power 
Over the terrors of his wildest hour? 
And was it not a phantom that had been 
Wandering about him ? Oh with what deep fear 
He listen'd now, to mark if he could hear 
The voice that lull'd him, but she never spoke ; 
For in her heart her own young love awoke 
From its long slumber, and chain'd down her 

tongue 
And she sat mute before him : he, the while, 
Stood feasting on her melancholy smile. 
Till o'er his eyes a dizzy vapour hung ; 
And he rush'd forth into the freshening air, 
Which kiss'd and play'd about his temples bare. 
And he grew calm. Not unobserved he fled, 
For she who mourn'd him once as lost and dead, 
Saw with a glance, as none but women see. 
His secret passion, and home silently 
She went rejoicing, till Vitelli asked 
" Wherefore her spirit fell," — and then she task'd 
Her fancy for excuse wherewith to hide 
Her thoughts, and turn his curious gaze aside. 

XV. 

That fateful day pass'd by; and then therb 
came 
Another and another, and the flame 
Of love burnt brightly in Colonna's breast, 
But while it fill'd it robbed his soul of rest : 
At home, abroad, at morning, and at noon 
In the hot sultry hours, and when the moon 
Shone in the cool fresh sky, and shaped those 

dim 
And shadowy figures once so dear to him,— 



452 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



Where'er he wander'd she would come upon 
His mind, a phantom-like companion ; 
Yet, with that idle dread with which the heart 
Stifles its pleasures, he would ever depart 
And loiter long amongst the streets of Rome, 
When she, he feared, might visit at his home. 
A strange and sad perverseness ; he did fear 
To part with that pale hope which shone at last 
Ghmmerihg upon his fortunes. Many a year 
Burthen' d with evil o'er his head had pass'd, 
And stamp' d upon his brow the marks of care. 
And so he seem'd as old before his time ; 
And many would pretend that in his air 
There was a gloom that had its birth in crime. 
— 'Tis thus the wretched are trod down. Despair 
Doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain 
As mischief or remorse ; and doubt will pain 
And sear the heart like sin accomplish'd. 
But slander ever hath hung upon the head 
Of silent sorrow, and corroding shame 
Preys on his heart, and its defenceless name 
Is blotted by the bad, until it flies 
From the base world a wiUing sacrifice. 



PART II. 



Love surely hath been breathing here. 

Sibylline Leaves. 

We wilt leave them to themselves, 

To the moon and the stars, these happy elves, 

To the murmurhig wave and the zephyr's wing, 

That dreams of gentlest joyance bring, 

To bathe their slumbering eyes. 

Isle of Palms. 



I. 

Oh power of love so fearful and so fair — 
Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care — 
Oh \ thou day-dreaming Spirit, who dost look 
Upon the future, as the charmed book 
Of Fate were open'd to thine eyes alone — 
Thou who dost cull, from moments stolen and 

gone 
Into eternity, memorial things 
To deck the days to come — thy revellings 
Were glorious and beyond all others : Thou 
Didst banquet upon beauty once ; and now 
The ambrosial feast is ended ! — Let it be. 
Enough to say, " J< twas," — Oh ! upon me 
From thy o'ershadowing wings ethereal 
Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all 
Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power. 
And on the breath of every coming hour 
Send me faint tidings of the things that were. 
And aid me as I try gently to tell 
The story of that young Itahan pair. 
Who loved so lucklessly, yet ah ! so well. 

IL 

How long Colonna in his gloomier mood 
Remained, it matters not : I will not brood 
On evil themes ; but, leaving grief and crime, 
At once, I pass unto a blither time. 



— One night — one summer night — he wandered 

far 
Into the Roman suburbs; many a star 
Shone out above upon the silent hours, 
Save when, awakening the sweet infant flowers. 
The breezes travell'd from the west, and then 
A small cloud came abroad and fled again. 
The red rose was in blossom, and the fair 
And bending lily to the wanton air 
Bared her white breast, and the voluptuous hme 
Cast out his perfumes, and the wilding thyme 
Mingled his mountain sweets, transplanted low 
'Midst all the flowers that in those regions blow. 
— He wandered on : At last, his spirit subdued 
By the deep influence of that hour, partook 
E'en of its nature, and he felt imbued 
With a more gentle love, and he did look 
At times amongst the stars, as on a book 
Where he might read his destiny. How bright 
Heaven's many constellations shone that night ! 
And from the distant river a gentle tune. 
Such as is uttered in the month of June, 
By brooks, whose scanty streams have languished 

long 
For rain, was heard ; — a tender, lapsing song, 
Sent up in homage to the quiet moon. 

III. 

He mused, till from a garden, near whose wall 
He leant, a melancholy voice was heard 
Singing alone, hke some poor widow bird 
That casts unto the woods her desert call. 
It was the voice — the very voice that rung 
Long in his brain that now so sweetly sung. 
He pass'd the garden-bounds and lightly trod. 
Checking his breath, along the grassy sod 
(By buds and blossoms half-hidden, which the 

breeze 
Had ravished from the clustering orange-trees,) 
Until he reached a low pavilion, where 
He saw a lady pale, with radiant hair 
Over her forehead, and in garments white ; 
A harp was by her, and her fingers light 
Carelessly o'er the golden strings were flung ; 
Then, shaking back her locks, with upward 

eye, 
And Ups that dumbly moved, she seemed to 

try. 
To catch an old disused melody — 
A sad Italian air it was, which I 
Remember in my boyhood to have heard, 
And still — (though here and there perhaps a word 
Be now forgot,) I recollect the song. 
Which might to any lovelorn tale belong. 

SONG. 

Whither, ah ! whither is my lost love straying— 

Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea? 

Oh ! ye winds, now playing 

Like airy spirits round my temples free, 

Fly and tell him this from me : 

Tell him, sweet winds, that in my woman's bosom 
My young love still retains its perfect power. 
Or, like the summer blossom, 
That changes still from bud to the full-blown 

flower, 
Grows with every passing hour. 



MARCIAN COLONNA, 



453 



Say (and say gently) that, since we two parted, 
How little joy — much sorrow I have known : 
Only not broken-hearted 
Because I muse upon bright moments gone, 
And dream and think of him alone. 

IV. 

The lady ended, and Colonna knelt 
Before her with outstretched arms : He felt 
That she, whom in the mountains far away 
His heart had loved so much, at last was his. 
" Is there, oh ! is there in a world like this" 
(He spoke) " such joy for me ? Oh ! Julia, 
Art thou indeed no phantom, which my brain 
Has conjured out of grief and desperate pain — 
And shall I then from day to day behold 
Thee again, and still again ? Oh ! speak to me, 
Julia — and gently, for I have grown old 
In sorrow ere my time : I kneel to thee." 
— Thus with a passionate voice the lover broke 
Upon her solitude, and while he spoke 
In such a- tone as might a maiden move. 
Her fear gave place to pride, and pride to love. 
Quick are fond women's sighs, and clear their 

powers. 
They live in moments years, an age in hours ; 
Through every movement of the heart they run 
[n a brief period with a courser's speed, 
And mark, decide, reject ; but if indeed 
They smile on us — oh ! as the eternal sun 
Forms and illuminates all to which this earth 
(Impregnate by his glance) hath given birth. 
Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates. 
And consecrates the love it first creates. 

y. 

At first she listened with averted eye, 
And then, half turning towards him, tenderly 
She mark'd the deep sad truth of every tone. 
Which told that he was hers, and all her own ; 
And saw the hectic flush upon his cheek, 
(That silent language which the passions speak- 
So eloquently well) and so she smiled 
Upon him. With a pulse rapid and wild 
A.nd eyes lit up with love, and all his woes 
Abandon'd or forgot, he Hghtly rose, 
And placed himself beside her. " Juha ! 
My own, my own, for you are mine," he said ; 
Then on her shoulder droop'd his feverish head. 
And for a moment he seemed dying away : 
But he recover'd quick. " Oh ! Marcian, 
I fear"— she softly sigh'd : — " Again, again, 
Speak, my divinest love, again, and shower 
The music of your words which have such power. 
Such absolute power upon my fainting soul — 
Oh ! I've been wandering towards that fearful 

goal. 
Where Life and Death, Trouble and Silence meet, 
(The Grave) with weak, perhaps with erring feet, 
A long, long time without thee — but no more ; 
For can I think upon that shadowy shore. 
Whilst thou art here standing beside me, 

sweet !" — 
She spoke; "Dear Marcian, I" — How soft she 

speaks. 
He uttered : " Nay" — (and as the daylight breaks. 
Over the hills at morning, was her smile) 
'Nay you must listen silently, awhile. 



" Dear Marcian, you and I for many years 
Have suffered : I have bought relief with tears ; 
But, my poor friend, I fear a misery 
Beyond the reach of tears has weighed on thee. 
What 'tis I know not, but (now calmly mark 
My words) 'twas said that — that thy mind was 

dark. 
And the red fountains of thy blood (as Heaven 
Is stained with the dying lights of Even) 
Were tainted— that thy mind did wander far, 
At times, a dangerous and erratic star. 
Which like a pestilence sweeps the lower sky^ 
Dreaded by every orb and planet nigh. 
This hath my father heard. Oh ! Marcian, 
He is a worldly and a cruel man. 
And made me once a victim ; but again 
It shall not be. I have had too much of pain. 
Too much for such short hours as hfe affords, 
And I would fain from out the golden hoards 
Of joy, pluck some fair ornament, at last. 
To gild my life with — but my life hath past." 

Her head sank on her bosom : gently he 
Kissed off the big bright tears of misery. 
Alas ! that ever such glittering drops should flow 
(Bright as though born of Happiness,) from woe ' 
He soothed her for a time, and she grew calm. 
For lovers' language is the surest balm 
To hearts that sorrow much : that night they parted 
With kisses and with tears, but both light-hearted. 
And many a vow was made and promise spoke, 
And well beheved by both and never broke : 
They parted, but from that time often met 
In that same garden when the sun had set. 
And for a while Colonna's mind forgot. 
In the fair present hour, his future lot. 

VI. 
To those o'er whom pale Destiny with his sting 
Hangs, a mere glance, a word, a sound will bring 
The bitter future with its terrors, all 
Black and o'erwhelming. Like Colonna's star, 
Though hidden for a while or banish' d far, 
The time xoill come, — at prayer or festival, 
Slumber or morning sport or mid-day task; 
The soul can never fly itself, nor mask 

The face of Fate with smiles. 

How oft by some strange ill of body or mind 
Man's fine and piercing sense is stricken blind? 
No matter then how slight the shadows be. 
The veil is thick to him who cannot see. 
Solid and unsubstantial, false and true. 
And Fear and Fate ; but to that wretched few. 
Who call the dim phantasms from their graves, 
And bow before their own creations, slaves, 
They are immortal — holy — fix'd — supreme. 
No more of this. — Now pass I to my theme. 

VII. 

The hours pass'd gently, — even happily 
Awhile ; though sometimes o'er Colonna's brow- 
There shone a meaning strange, as though hie 

doom 
Flash'd like a light across his memory. 
And left behind a momentary gloom ; 
This would he smile away ; and then forget, 
And then again, sighing, remember: yet 
Over pale Julia's face that shadow cast 



454 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



A shadow like itself, and when it passed 

Its sad reflection vanish' d. Lovers' eyes 

Bright mirrors are where Love may look and see 

Its gladness, grief, beauty, deformity. 

Pictured in all their answering colours plain, 

So long as the true hfe and Soul remain ; 

For when the substance shrinks the shadow flies. 

Thus lived Colonna, till to common eyes 
He seemed redeem' d and rescued from despair ; 
And often would he catch the joyous air 
Of the mere idler, and the past would seem, 
To him and others, hke a terrible dream 
Dissolved : 'twas then a clear spirit grew 
In his black eye, and over the deep blue 
Of Julia's a soft happier radiance hung, 
Like the dark beauty from the starlight flung 
Upon the world, which tells Heaven's breast is 

clear 
Within, and that abroad no cloud is near. 

VIII. 

Once — only once — ('twas in a lonely hour) — 
He felt the presence of his evil power 
Weighing upon him, and he left his home 
In silence, amidst fresher scenes to roam. 
— 'Twas said that he did wander far and wide 
O'er desert heaths, and on the Latian plains 
Bared his hot forehead to the faUing rains. 
Which there bring death ; and with a heart allied 
To gentle pleasures still, on the green hill's side 
Would stretch his length upon the evening grass, 
Shedding sweet tears to see the great sun pass 
Away like a dream of boyhood. Darkness then 
Grew his familiar, and in caverns deep 
(By the strange voice of Silence luU'd asleep) 
He oft would hide himself within its arms ; 
Or gaze upon the eyes of Heaven, when 
She stands illustrious with her midnight charms 
Reveal'd — all unobscured by moon or sun, 
Gay-tinted cloud, or airy rainbow won 
From light and showers ; and when storms were 

high 
He listen'd to the wind- God riding by 
The mountain places, and there took his stand. 
Hearkening his voice of triumph or command, 
Or heard him through the piny forests rave, 
Ere he went murmuring to his prisoa cave, 

IX. 

And then unto the rocks of Tivoli 
He went : alas ! for gone Antiquity — 
Its holy and mysterious temple, where 
The Sibyl spread abroad her hoary hair, 
And spoke her divine oracles. Her home 
Is crumbling into dust, and sheeted foam 
Now sparkles where her whiten'd tresses hung ; 
And where her voice, like Heaven's, was freely 

flung 
Unto the echoes, now fierce torrents flow. 
Filling with noise and spray the dell below. 
Not useless are ye yet, ye rocks and woods 
Of Tivoli, although long since have vanish'd 
From your lost land its gorgeous palaces. 
And though the spirit of the place be banish'd 
The earth for ever — yet your silver floods 
Remain (immortal music,) and the breeze 
Brings health and freshness to your waving trees. 



X. 

For weeks amongst the woods did Marcian 
rove 
And wilds : At last, unto his widow'd love 
He came again, while yet the fever stain'd 
His cheek and darkness on his brow remain'd. 
She saw the hectic colour burning bright 
Clouded by looks of sorrow, and one night — 
It was a night of sultry summer weather, 
And they were sitting in the garden where. 
Guided by fate, and drawn Hke doves together, 
They once had met, and meeting mock'd at care, 
And he first sank upon her bosom fair : 
Her vi'hite and delicate fingers now by his 
Were held and not withdrawn, and with a kiss 
He thank' d her, yet with idle question tried 
To cheat away the grief she could not hide. 
He felt that he had planted in her heart 
The seeds of grief; and could he then depart 
And leave the lady of his love in tears — 
Weigh' d down (and for his sake) by silent fearsX, 
He could not : Oh he felt the pleading look 
Of her who loved him so, nor could he brook 
Still to be thought afrantic. " Thoushalt know, 
Dearest," he said, " my hidden story now; 
Forgive me that before I told thee not : 
I thought — I wished to think the thing forgot," 
— He ponder'd then, as to regain a thought; 
At length, with a firm tongue (but mingling still 
Much fancy with the fact, as madmen will,) 
He told his tale — his dream : — 

XI. 

"From my sad youth 
I never was beloved, — never. Truth 
Fell mildew'd from my lips, and in my eye 
Gloom'd, it was said, the red insanity. 
I was not mad — nor am ; but I became 
Wither' d by malice, and a clouded flame 
Rose from my heart, and made my eyesight dim 
And by brain turn, and palsied every Umb, 
And the world stood in stupor for a time. 
Yet from my fiery cloud I heard of crime, 
Of parent's — brother's hate, and of one lost 
For want of kindness. — Then ? — ay ; then there 

came 
The rushing of innumerable wings 
By me, and sweets, such as the summer flings, 
Fell on my fainting senses, and I crept 
Into some night-dark place, and long I slept; 
I slept until a rude uneasy motion 
Stirr'd me : what pass'd I know not then, and 

yet 
Methought the air blew freshly, and the ocean 
Danced with its bright blue waters: I forget 
Where all this happen'd ; but at last my brain 
Seem'd struggling with itself, awhile in vain. 
There was a load on it, like hopeless care 
Upon the mind — a dreary heavy load, 
And now and then, it seem'd as shapes did goad 
My soul to recollection, — or despair. 

XII. 
" Clearer and clearer now from day to day 
The figures floated on my sight, but when 
I moved they vanish'd. Then, a grim array, 
Like spectres from the graves of buried men, 



MARCIAN C0L0NN4. 



455 



Came by in silence : each upon his face 

Wore a wild look, as though some sad disgrace 

Had stamped his life (or thus I thought) with 

sorrow : 
They vanish' d too ; but ever on the morrow 
They came again, with greater sadness, till 
I spoke ; then one of them gave answer — shrill 
As blasts that whistle through the dungeon's 

grate 
On bleak December nights, when in her state 
Comes the white Winter. — 'Look!'— (I thus 

translate 
The sounds it utter'd)— ' Look,' the phantom 

said, 
' Upon thine ancestry departed — dead. 
Each one thou seest hath left his gaping tomb 
Empty, and comes to warn thee of thy doom : 
And each, whilst living, bore within his brain 
A settled madness : start not — so dost thou : 
Thou art our ow?i, and on thy moody brow 
There is the invisible word ne'er writ in vain. 
Look on us all : we died as thou shalt die, 
The victims of our heart's insanity ; 
From sire to son the boihng rivers ran 
Through every vein a,nd 'twas alike with all : 
It touch' d the child and trampled down the man ; 
And every eye that, with its dead dull ball. 
Seems as it stared upon thee now, was bright 
As thine is, with the true transmitted light. 
Madness and pain of heart shall break thy rest. 
And she shall perish whom thou lovest the best. 
Once thou hast been a mockery unto man. 
But thus, at least, it shall not be again. 
Behold ! where yon red rolHng star doth shine 
From out the darkness : that fierce star is thine. 
Thy Destiny, thy Spirit, and its power 
Shall guard and rule thee to thy latest hour ; 
And never shall it quit thy side, but be 
Invisible to all and dim to thee, 
Save when the fever of the soul shall rise, 
And then that light shall flash before thine eyes, 
And thou shalt then remember that thy fate 
Is — murder.^ — Thus upon the silence broke 
The spectre's hollow words; but while it spoke. 
Its pale lip never moved, nor did its eye 
Betray intelligence. With sweeping state. 
Over the ground the train then glided by, 
And vanish' d, — vanish'd. Then methought I 

'woke. 

XIIL 

" It was no dream, for often since that hour 
The star has flash'd, and I have felt its power, 
('Twas in my moodier moments) and my soul 
Seem'd languishing for blood, and there did roll 
Rivers of blood beside me, and my hands. 
As though I did obey my Fate's commands. 
Were smear'd and sanguine, and my throbbing 

brow 
Grew hot and blister'd with the fire wdthin, 
And rny heart wither'd with a secret sin, 
And my whole heart was tempested : it grew 
Larger methought with passion — even now 
I feel it swell within me, and a flood 
Of fiery wishes such as man ne'er knew 
Seem'd to consume me. Sometimes I have 
stood 



Looking at heaven — for Hope, with these sad 

eyes. 
In vain — for I was born a sacrifice : 
What hope was there for me, a murderer ! 
What lovely ? nothing — yes, I err, I err. 

" Yes, mui'd with these wild visionings, a form 
Descended, fragile as a summer cloud, 
And with her gentle voice she still' d the storm : 
I never saw her face, and yet I bowed 
Down to the dust, as savage men, they say, 
Adore the sun in countries far away. 
I felt the music of her words like balm 
Raining upon my soul, and I grew calm 
As the great forest lion that lay down 
At Una's feet, without a single moan, 
Vanquish' d by love ; or as the herds that hung 
Their heads in silence when the Thracian sung. 
— I never saw her, — never, but her voice 
Was the whole world to me. It said ' Rejoice I 
For I am come to love thee, youth, at last. 
To recompense thy pains and sorrow past. 
No longer now, amongst the mountains high, 
Shalt thou over thy single destiny 
Mourn: I am come to share it. I, whom all 
Have worshipp'd like a shrine, have left the hall 
Of my proud parents, and without a sigh. 
Am come to roam by caverns and by floods. 
And be a dweller with thee in the woods. 

" — Here let me pause, for now I must not say 
How she, my gentle spirit, fades away ; 

And now, and now Alas ! and must I die, 

The martyr of a crime I cannot shun ? 

What have I — what have my dead fathers done, 

That thus from age to age a misery 

Is seared and stamped upon us ? — Shall it be 

For ever thus ? It shall not. I will run 

My race as fearless as the summer sun. 

When clouds come not, and Uke his course above 

Shall mine be here below, all light and love." 

XIV. 

He ended, and with kisses sweet and soft 
She recompensed his words, and bade him dwell 
No more upon the past, but look aloft 
And pray to Heaven ; and yet she bade him tell 
Again the story of that lady young, 
Who o'er him in such dream-like beauty hung. 
" You saw her, Marcian — no ?"— " My love, my 

love, 
My own," he said; "'twas thou, my forest 

dove. 
Who soothed me in the wilderness, and crept 
Into my heart, and o'er my folly wept, 
From dusky evening to the streaming morn. 
Showers of sparkling tears. Oh ! how forlorn 
Was I without thee. Should I lose thee now—" 
" Away, away," she said, and on his brow 
Pressed her vermilion lips, and drew his hair 
Aside and kissed again his forehead fair. 
" Come, thou shalt lie upon— ay, on my breast, 
And I will sing thee into golden rest." 

XV. 

Thus talked they, follying, as lovers will ; 
I A pleasant pastime — and, when worldly pain 



456 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



Comes heavily on us, it is pleasant still 

To read of this in song : it brings again 

The hours of youth before man's jaded eye, 

Spreading a charm about him, silently. 

—Oh ! never shall thy name, sweet Poesy, 

Be flung away, or trampled by the crowd 

As a thing of little worth, while I aloud 

May (with a feeble voice indeed) proclaim 

The sanctity, the beauty of thy name. 

Thy grateful servant am I, for thy power 

Has solaced me through many a wretched hour ; 

In sickness — ay, when frame and spirit sank, 

I turned me to thy crystal cup and drank 

Intoxicating draughts. Faithfulest friend, 

Most faithful— perhaps best: when none were 

nigh 
Unto thy green recesses did I send 
My thoughts, and freshest rills of poesy 
Came streaming all around from fountains old; 
And so I drank and drank, and haply told 
How thankful was I unto the night wind 
Alone, — a cheerless confidant, but kind. 

And now, Colonna, and sweet Julia, 
A few few words to ye : If I have sung 
Imperfectly your loves, or idly hung 
Upon your griefs, forgive it. One fair day 
Shone on your lives and lingered ; yet — and yet 
I now must pass what 1 may ne'er forget. 
— Thou bright and hymeneal Star, whose wane 
(For thou alone canst never rise again) 
Is as the dark declining of the soul, 
Roll gently over youth and beauty, roll 
In thy so sweet and silent course along, 
A soft sigh only thy companion-song ; 
In all the light of love I leave thee now, 
Unclouded and sublime. Upon the brow 
Of each shed thy soft influence— calm, not gay : 
For me, — a word I'll speak, and then— away. 

XVI. 

Sleep softly, on your bridal pillows, sleep. 
Excellent pair ; happy and young and true ; 
And o'er your days, and o'er your slumbers deep 
And airy dreams, may Love's divinest dew 
Be scatter' d like the April rains of Heaven : 
And may your tender words, whispered at even. 
Be woven into music ; and, as the wind 
Leaves, when it flies, a sweetness still behind. 
When distant, may each silver sounding tone 
Weigh on the other's heart, and bring (though 

gone) 
The absent back ; and may no envy sever 
Your joys, but may each love — be loved for ever. 

:}; Ll( * * * * * 

Now, as I write, lo ! through my window streams 
The midnight moon — crescented Dian, who 
' Tis said once wandered from her wastes of blue. 
And all for love ; filling a shepherd's dreams 
With beauty and deUght. He slept, he slept. 
And on his eyelids white the huntress wept 
Till morning; and looked through, on nights 

like this, 
His lashes dark , and left her dewy kiss ; 
But never more upon the Latmos hill 
May she descend to kiss that forest boy, 
-And give — receive gentle and innocent joy, 



When clouds are distant far and winds are still : 
Her bound is circumscribed, and curbed her will. 
Those were immortal stories : — are they gone ? 
The pale queen is dethroned. Endymion 
Hath vanished ; and the worship of this earth 
Is bow'd to golden gods of vulgar birth. 



PART III. 



The tale 1 follow to its last recess. 
Of suffering or of peace. 

Vaudracour and JuUa. 



I. 

Farewell unto the valleys and the shores 
Lashed by the sounding sea : awhile farewell 
To every haunted fountain, lawny dell. 
And piny wood through which the night wind 

roars — 
And oh ! sweet Love, soon must I say farewell 
Even to thee, and Happiness— gay flowers 
Ye are who show yourselves in sunny hours, 
But die away before your buds are blown : 
Life's earhest relics, in its spring-time strewn 
Like wither'd weeds before the steps of Fate, 
Frail, fading off"erings, — yet ere I sate 
Myself with sorrow, in a pleasant rhyme 
Would I speak somewhat of a gentler time. 

II. 

Oh ! full of languishment, too deep to last, 
The bridal hours in happy beauty passed, 
(The feather-footed hours !) — and hoary Time 
Smoothed his pale brow, and with a look sublime 
From out the stream of joy a measure quafl^ed. 
And young Love shook his rosy wings and 

laughed. 
Dance and Arcadian tale and sylvan song, 
Which to those moments did of right belong, 
Went round and then returned : the morning Sun 
Met brighter eyes than e'er he glanced upon. 
And evening saw them still the same, and night 
Looked from her star-lit throne on stars more 

bright. 
The morn was given to tale, the noon to ease 
And musing beneath shade of branching trees ; 
The night to slumber ; but at evening grey 
When the too fiery Sun had passed away. 
Music was heard beneath the smiling moon 
Till midnight came (it ever came too soon,) 
And songs which lovers once were wont to sing 
Of knight forlorn and lady triumphing ; 
And flowers that lie upon the breast of May, 
Like gems, were plucked to fashion garlands gay, 
And laurels green to deck the poet's head. 
For then the bard was loved and honoured. 
— Some lay beside a river lapsing clear. 
And fancied Sylph or Naiad watching near, 
While some of fabled Faun and Dryad told, 
Or Fairy haunting well or fountain cold ; 



MARCIAN COLONNA, 



457 



And ever and anon the fitful breeze 
Came aiding those most gentle phantasies, 
And died away, as voices by a lyre 
(Touched by the trembling of its notes) expire. 
— Around the lovers' brows white roses hung, 
And at their feet the wealth of spring was flung ; 
And they at times would sit apart and speak 
Each to the other with a flushing cheek, 
Or note the gentle look in maiden's eye, 
Called up by lordly gallant whispering by. 

HI. 

Fate was at hand, — a snake amidst the flowers, 
And looked and laughed upon the passing hours ; 
And Envy and pale Hate then exiled far 
Foretold the setting of Love's brighter star. 
— Oh ! the deep sorrow of that weary day 
When Marcian chanced, as he was wont, to 

stray 
Scarce listening to the Tyber's gentle sound, 
Yet winding as the mazy river wound. 
At morn he left his home, and paced along, 
Companion'd only by a heart-felt song, 
That sprung like incense to the gate of Heaven, 
By the gay fever of his spirit driven. 
He travelled swiftly onwards : but his sight 
Was buried in deep thought : the enchantments 

bright 
That lie among the clouds he noticed not, 
And all the promise of the year forgot. 
The golden fruitage from its grove of green 
Looked out unheeded, and, no longer seen, 
The sky-bird mounted toward the morning Sun, 
And shrilly told aloft of day begun. 
How he was wakened from that dreaming mood, 
Alas, must now be known : — In the broad day 
Marking the clear blue river roll away, 
Li squalid weeds a savage creature stood. 
It is — it cannot be — Oh ! Death and night ! 
Hath he come peering from his watery home, 
Mocking and withering every human sight ? 
Hath dark Orsini still a power to roam ? 
— Daemon or ghost or living thing he stands, — 
Staring with sullen eyes upon the sands, 
As though he brooded o'er some wrong, or strove 
To wreak on happier hearts the slights of love, 
Like one escaped from toil, but fit for strife — 
The last and lingering ill, — the bhght of life. 

IV. 

Colonna, sad Colonna, — he hath fled 
Wildly unto his home : — there Julia lay 
Upon her pillow slumbering, calm and gay 
As sleep may be.—" The waves, the waves," he 

said, 
"The sea-sick waters yawn and yield their 

dead — 
The dead ? he is ahve : Peril nor pain, 
Death nor the grave would keep him in its bed. 
The black Orsini is returned — again." 
" PJarcian," she uttered faintly, and a gleam 
Played 'round her mouth : it was a happy dream. 
" Thou, lovely thing, whom nature made so fair, 
Young treasure of creation, must despair 
Sear thy transcendent beauty, because thou 
Wrapp'd thy sweet arms about a maniac's brow ? 
JuHa ! she sleeps, she sleeps; a happy sleep. 
Oh ! why did I draw her within the sweep — 
58 



Why — of my fiery star ? It comes — I see 

The comet red, which Fate, mine enemy, 

Hath placed about me like a circle sure : 

I cannot fly, and yet shall I endure ? 

Endure — I must, evil and hate — I must. 

And Hell, until I wither into dust : 

That may be soon. She moves, poor girl, — My 

love ! 
Hearest thou I call upon thee ? My pale dove ! 
Still on my bosom, still." She woke: his eye 
Rolled round and round like one in misery, 
Fearfi.ll to speak : But silence is not dumb. 
And in his deep eloquent agong 
She read strange fearful things. He whispered 

" Come — 
We must begone — " ("Begone? dear Mar- 
cian!") 
" Ay, quickly ! for alas, we have no home 
Nor refuge here. On land Italian 
We must not build our hearths, nor hope to 

dwell 
In safety now, from youth to age." — " 'Tiswell; 
Perhaps 'tis well," she said: " And wilt thou go 
On a long journey with me, — far away? 
I may not tell thee now ; but a dire foe 
Has risen upon me. Wilt thou wander — say?" 
("All the world over I — ") " Oh ! thou hast said 
Comfort unto my soul," he uttered ; 
" Whilst I may lay my head upon thy breast. 
It matters not ; my Heaven is there — my rest. 
Let the red star shine on, for I am thine, 
Thine while I am, — in darkness and dismay. 
Here, or in wildernesses far away ; 
In poverty forlorn, or love divine. 
In prisons or in freedom, — ay, in death." 
He ceased, and straightway he was calm: his 

breath 
Was in a moment stilled : one gentle sigh 
Came from pale Juha, but he trembled not. 
For she was his — the rest was all forgot. 
—That night they left the land of Italy. 

V. 

There was a tempest brooding in the air 
Far in the west. Above, the skies were fair, 
And the sun seem'd to go in glory down : 
One small black cloud (one only) like a crown, 
Touched his descending disc and rested there : 
Slow then it came along, to the great wind 
RebeUious, and (although it blew and blew) 
Came on increasing, and across the blue 
Spread its dark shape, and left the sun behind. 
— The dayhght sank, and the winds wail'd about 
The barque wherein the luckless couple lay. 
And from the distant cloud came scattering out 
Rivers of fire : it seem'd as though the day 
Had burst from out the billows, far away. 
No pilot had they their small boat to steer 
Aside from rocks, no sea- worn mariner 
Who knew each creek and bay and sheltering 

steep, 
And all the many dangers of the deep. 
They fled for life (for happiness is life,) 
And met the tempest in his hour of strife, 
Abroad upon the waters : they were driven 
Against him by the angry winds of heaven : 
And all around, the clouds, the air, the sea 
'Rose from unnatural dread tranquillity. 



458 



BARRY CORNWALL, 



And came to battle with their legions : Hail 
Shot shattering down, and thunders roar'd aloud, 
And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud 
Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale, 
And darted through the heavens: Below, the gale 
Sang like a dirge, and the white billows lash'd 
The boat, and then like ravenous lions dash'd 
Against the deep wave-hidden rocks, and told 
Of ghastly perils as they backward roU'd. 

VI. 

The lovers, driven along from hour to hour. 
Were helpless, hopeless, in the ocean's power. — 
— The storm continued, and no voice was heard, 
Save that of some poor solitary bird. 
Which sought a shelter on the quivering mast. 
But soon, borne off by the tremendous blast, 
Sank in the waters screaming. The great sea 
Bared like a grave its bosom silently ; 
Then sank and panted hke an angry thing 
With its own strength at war : The veasel flew 
Towards the land, and then the billows grew 
Larger and white, and roar'd as triumphing. 
Scattering afar and wide the heavy spray 
That shone like loose snow as it pass'd away. 
— At first the dolphin and the porpoise dark 
Came rolling by them, and the hungry shark 
Followed the boat, patient and eager-eyed. 
And the grey curlew slanting dipp'd her side 
And the hoarse gull his wing within the foam ; 
But some had sunk, the rest had hurried home. 
And there pale Julia and her husband, clasped 
Each in the other's arms, sate viewing Death: 
She for his sake at times in terror gasp'd ; 
But he to cheer her kept his steady breath. 
Talking of hope, and smiled like morning. — 

There 
They sate together in their sweet despair : 
At times upon his breast she laid her head. 
And he upon her silent beauty fed, 
Hushing her fears, and 'tween her and the storm 
Drew his embroidered cloak to keep her warm : 
She thank'd him with a look upturn'd to his, 
The which he answer' d with a gentle kiss 
Press'd and prolong'd to pain. Her lip was cold ; 
And all her love and terror mutely told. 

VIL 

O thou, vast Ocean ! Ever-sounding sea ! 
Thou symbol of a drear immensity ! 
Thou thing that windest round the solid world 
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurl'd 
From the black clouds, hes weltering and alone, 
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. 
Thy voice is hke the thunder, and thy sleep 
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. 
Thou speakest in the East and in the West 
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast 
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no 

hfe 
Or motion, yet are moved and met in strife. 
The earth hath nought of this: no chance nor 

change 
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare 
Give answer to the tempest-waken air ; 
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range 
At will, and wound its bosom as they go : 
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow ; 



But in their stated rounds the seasons come, 
And pass like visions to their viewless home, 
And come again, and vanish : the young Spring 
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming ; 
And Winter always winds his sullen horn. 
When the wild Autumn with a look forlorn 
Dies in his stormy manhood ; and the skies 
Weep and flowers sicken when the Summer flies, 
— Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power, 
A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour, 
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds, 
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds 
Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be 

driven 
Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind, 
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind, 
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with 

Heaven. 

Thou trackless and immeasurable Main ! 
On thee no record ever lived again 
To meet the hand that writ it : line nor lead 
Hath ever fathomed thy profoundest deeps, 
Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps, 
King of his watery limit, who, 'tis said. 
Can move the mighty ocean into storm — 
Oh ! wonderful thou art, great element : 
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, 
And lovely in repose : thy summer form 
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves 
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, 
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach. 
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, 
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach^— 
"Eternity, Eternity, and Power." 

VIII. 
And now — whither are gone the lovers now ? 
Colonna, wearest thou anguish on thy brow, 
And is the valour of the moment gone ? — 
Fair Julia, thou art smiling now alone : 
The hero and the husband weeps at last — 
Alas, alas ! and lo ! he stands aghast, 
Bankrupt in every hope, and silently gasps 
Like one who maddens. Hark ! the timbers part 
And the sea-billows come, and still he clasps 
His pale pale beauty closer to his heart, 
The ship has struck. One kiss — the last — Love's 

own, 
— They plunge into the waters and are gone.— 
The vessel sinks — 'tis vanished, and the sea 
Rolls boiling o'er the wreck triumphantly ; 
And shrieks are heard, and cries, and then short 

groans 
Which the waves stifle quick, and doubtful tones 
Like the faint meanings of the wind pass by, 
And horrid gurgHng sounds rise up and die. 
And noises like the choking of man's breath — 
— But why prolong the tale ? it is of death ! 

IX. 
Years carne and fled. To many time was fraught 
With joy ; to some imperfect pleasures brought : 
But to the Prince Colonna grey and old 
A dull unchanging tale he ever told. 
The children of his winter years were gone — 
They lay, 'twas told, among the waters, — dead : 
In the bright spirit of their youth they fled, 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 



459 



And left him, in his pallid age, alone. 
He wet the dust with bitter tears, and bow'd 
Before his idols, and vast treasures vow'd 
To saint or virgin from his coffers bright ; 
And ofien fiercely at the deep midnight 
Woula he do torture for his sin, and drank 
Unto the very dregs the cup of pain. 
With steel and stripe he wrought, until he sank 
Beneath the bloody penance: — 'twas in vain. 
Remorse, Remorse — (a famished creature bred 
From Sin, and feasting on its father dead,) 
Sprang like a withering snake upon his heart. 
It wrapp'd him in its fiery folds around : 
It stung, and wither' d, but it had no sound ; 
And, though he pray'd and wept, would not 
depart. 



The palace of his fathers, once so gay, 
Was mossed and green and crumbling to decay : 
The pillars yellowed in the marble halls, 
And through the ruined casements the wild rains 
Rushed with destroying wrath, and shapeless 

stains 
Ran o'er, disfiguring all the painted walls. 
Few servants tended on their ancient lord, 
And mirthful revel, banish'd from his board, 
Sought refuge with the humble. Song or sound 
Echo'd no more within the gallery's bound. 
But in a lonely tower a lamp at times 
Was seen, and startling through the silent air 
Flew shrieks, as from a wretch whom many 

crimes 
Had seared, and driven to life's last hold, — 

despair. 
—Friends pass'd, by one, and one, and one, 

away. 
His foes grew glad ; his brother's children, gay. 
Cast dice for his domains, while bending low 
Before the papal chair one whispered how 
Report had gone abroad of some dark crime 
Done by the old man in his early time. 
And hinted of his vast possessions, which 
Divided might the holy church enrich, 
And his contented heirs. The mitred king 
Disdained to parley with so poor a thing; 
Yet question'd the great prince, whose answers 

cold 
Confirmed the story which the slanderer told. 
And so he lived (a perished shape) like one 
Lost in a lovely world — alone, alone. 

XI. 

And hath thy fiery planet then not set, 
Colonna ? — When the winds and thunder met 
In ttimult, and around in many shapes 
Death hovered with his dart. Fate turned aside 
The arrows, laughing o'er the waters wide, 
Till the sea trembled. Ah ! but who escapes — 
Who can escape from Fate ? It frowned, and 

hung, 
Darker than Death itself, the foreheads o'er 
Of that sad pair, and when the billows flung 
Their limbs in scorn upon the foamy shore. 
Uprose the veering wind, and the next wave 
Scarce touch'd the ringlet of Colonna's hair, 
Which, streaming black upon the strand, lay 

there 



The image of his fortunes. Dark and wild, 
Neglected, torn, — with an unquiet grave 
Open beside him, there Colonna smiled, 
Or so it seemed, in death, but in his grasp 
Still held the lost and lifeless Juha. 
There, tempest-stricken — in each other's clasp, 
Beautiful on the sea-beat shore they lay : 
Around her body were his arms enwove, 
Her head upon his bosom, close as love. 

XII. 

They died not. Housed within a fisher's cot 
Life dawn'd on them, and pain was soon forgot. 
Time flew, and health return'd and quietness, 
And still i' the world they found enough to 

bless. 
Colonna plied him in the fisher's trade ; 
And Juha watched his evening sail, — afr^d 
If but a crested wave was on the deep ; 
And if she heard the ocean billows sweep 
Loudly along the shore, she looked on high. 
And prophesied of storm and tempest nigh. 
— One eve returning home with shout and song, 
The fishers phed their tossing boat along, 
And Marcian at the helm the rudder guided. 
And looked upon the waters, which divided 
Beside the barque, seeming to rise and die, 
Like short hours in a deep eternity. 
He saw a menial standing on the strand, 
Who, turning from a chart within his hand, 
Look'd round to note the place. Again — it was— 
He saw — Orsini's slave — Alas, alas! 
Oh! Love, fair Love ! is there no wilderness 
For thee to hide thee in thy dark distress ? 
No haven and no hope, sweetest of all. 
For thee to celebrate thy festival ? 
A sad short world is this, and yet thou hast 
No home where thou mayst dream till life be 

past. 
Tumult and strife and storm and wild dismay, 
Envy and hate, — and thus we pass away ; 
And trample on the flowers that deck our road, 
And goad ourselves if others do not goad. 

XIIL 

No more in that lone hamlet were they seen; 
But the remembrance of what once had been 
(Their deep and sad affection,) still survived 
Their going. They had lived, and gently lived 
Amongst the wild and sea-beat mariners : 
His eye was clearing to a calm, and hers 
Troubled, but still at times, and always soft, 
And her sweet voice (like music heard aloft 
By tender herniitess in rocky cell. 
Or in dreams of love, at night, 
By young and hopeless anchorite,) 
Was after many a year remember'd well. 

They fled into the mountains. Night and day, 
By strange and lonely paths they sought their 

way. 
Wild as a creature in the forests born, 
That springs on Asian sands, Colonna grew. 
And with his burthen on his bosom flew. 
Supporting, watching her from night to morn. 
At last the chesnut groves and woods of pines 
Frowned on them from the gloomy Appenines, 



460 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



And then Colonna felt his bride was safe. 
He placed her near Laverna, in a cave 
High, overgrown and haunted, yet his sport 
Had been to slumber there in former days, 
And, from its dizzy height, he had loved to 

court 
The breeze which ever o'er the mountains plays. 
— Clad in his fisher's weeds, and with a brow 
Bronzed by his sea-ward life, Colonna now 
Went fearless to the convent, and would toil 
For the pale monks and till their rocky soil, 
And gain their bounty (garments coarse, and 

food,) 
Which he would carry to his cavern rude, 
And feed the dove that lay within his nest, 
And hush her every evening to her rest. 

XIV. 

At last she learned the tale — ' ' Orsini — How ! — 
Given up and banish' d from his grave, below — 
Orsini, dark Orsini !" — On her soul 
The hollow words came hke a thunder-roll 
Sounding at distance over hill and vale : 
And Marcian marked her and his cheek grew 

pale, 
And his hand trembled as he soothed her then, 
And through his brain a terror flew again. 
—Now paused he in his toil and daily walk, 
And in the gloom would often idly talk 
Of poison and of blood, and tears would stream 
In rivers down his cheeks when he did dream : 
Sometimes in bitter spleen his tongue would 

chide 
And then, in anguish that he could not hide, 
He wept and prayed her not to leave him there, 
A lone man, in his madness, — in despair. 
And then he told her of his wretched youth, 
And how upon her love and gentle truth 
His life had rested ; — yet she did not speak. 
Save in the paUid hues that sunk her cheek, 
And in her heaving breast and rayless eye 
Whicli spoke of some fix'd grief that would 

not fly. 

" And will she leave me then who loved her 

so — 
(So utterly beyond the love of men) 
And pass into a wretch's arms again, 
From mine so true — from mine ? she shall not — 

Oh! 
Yet wherefore should I stay her, if her love 
Be gone, indeed" — and then at times he strove 
To think that he might live and she afar, 
The beauty of his life, the hope, the star. 
Oh ! melancholy thought, and vain and brief: 
He felt that like the Autumn's perished leaf 
His frame would wither, and from its great height 
His mind must sink, and lose itself in night. 

No talk was pleasant now ; no image fair ; 
No freshness and no fragrance filled the air ; 
No music in the winds nor in the sound 
The wild birds uttered from the forests round ; 
The sun had lost its light, and drearily 
The morning stole upon his altered eye ; 
And night vvith all her starry eyes grew dim, 
For she was changed — and nought was true 
to him. 



XV. 

From pain — at length, from pain, (for could he 

bear 
The sorrow burning wild without a tear ?) 
He rush'd beside her : Towards him gloomily 
She look'd, and then he gasp'd — "We — list to 

me — 
We — we must part — must part, is it not so ?" 
She hung her head and murraur'd, "Woe, oh. 

woe. 
That it must be so — nay, Colonna — nay, 
Hearken unto me : little can I say. 
But sin — (is it not sin?) doth wear my heart 
Away to death. Alas ! and must we part, 
We who have loved long and so truly ? — yes ; 
Were we not born (we were) for wretchedness ? 
Oh ! Marcian, Marcian, I must go : my road 
Le'cids to a. distant home, a calm abode, 
Where I may pine my few sad years away, 
And die, and make my peace ere I decay." 

She spoke no more, for now she saw his soul 
Rising in tumult, and his eye-balls roll 
Wildly and fiery red, and through his cheek 
Deep crimson shot : he sigh'd but did not speak. 
Keeping a horrid silence there he sate, 
A maniac, full of love, and death, and fate: 
Again — the star that once his eye shone o'er 
Flush' d forth again more fiercely than before : 
And through his veins the current fever flew 
Like hghtning, withering all it trembled through. 
He clenched his hands and rush'd away, away, 
And looked and laughed upon the opening day. 
And mocked the morn with shouts, and wandered 

wild 
For hours as by some meteor thing beguiled. 
He wander' d through the forests sad and lone. 
His heart all fiery and his senses gone ; 
Till, at the last (for nature sank at last,) 
The tempest of the fever fell and past. 
And he lay down upon the rocks to sleep. 
And shrunk into a troubled slumber, deep. 
Long was that sleep — long — very long and 

strange. 
And frenzy sufiered then a silent change. 
And his heart hardened as the fire withdrew, 
Like furnaced iron beneath the Winter's dew. 

XVL 

He gained — he gained (why droops my story ?) 

then 
An opiate deadly from the convent men. 
And bore it to his cave : she drank that draught 
Of death, and he look'd on in scorn, and laughed, 
With an exulting terrible joy, when she 
Lay down in tears to slumber, silently. 
— She had no after-sleep ; but ere she slept 
Strong spasms and pains throughout her body 

crept. 
And round her brain and tow'rds her heart, until 
They touch' d that seat of love, — and all was still. 
Away he wander' d for some lengthened hour 
When the black poison showed its fiercest power ; 
And when he sought the cavern, there she lay, 
The young, the gentle, — dying fast away. 

He sate and watch' d her, as a nurse might do, 
And saw the dull film steal across the blue, 



MARCIAN COLONNA. 



461 



And saw and felt her sweet forgiving smile, 
That, as she died, parted her hps the while: 
Her hand ? — its pulse was silent — her voice gone, 
But patience in her smile still faintly shone, 
And in her closing eyes a tenderness. 
That seem'd as she would fain Colonna bless. 

She died, and spoke no word : and still he sate 
Beside her like an image. Death and Fate 
Had done what might be then : The morning sun 
Rose upon him : on him ? — his task was done. 
The murderer and the murder'd — one as pale 
As marble shining white beneath the moon, 
The other dark as storms, when the winds rail 
At the chafed sea, — but not to calm so soon. — 
N.o bitterness, nor hate, nor dread was there ; 
But love still clinging round a wild despair, 
A wintry aspect and a troubled eye, 
Mourning o'er youth and beauty born to die. 

Dead was she, and her mouth had fallen low, 
But still he watched her with a steadfast brow : 
Unaltered as a rock he sate, while she 
Lay changed to clay, and perish' d. Drearily 
Came all the hues of death across her face : 
That look, so lovely once, had lost its grace, 
The eye its light, the cheek its colour, now. 
— Oh ! human beauty, what a dream art thou. 
That we should cast our hfe and hopes away. 
On thee — and dost thou like a leaf decay, 
In Spring-tide as in Autumn ? — Fair and frail, 
In bud or blossom if a blight prevail, 
How ready art thou from the world to fly ; 
And we who love thee so are left — to die. 

xvn. 

Fairest of all the world, thy tale is told : 
Thy name is written in a r3cord old, 
And I from out the legend now rehearse 
Thy story, shaping it to softer verse. 
And thou, the lost Colonna, — thou, whose brain 
Was fever-struck with love and jealous pain, 
A wanderer wast thou lonely through the earth ? 
Or didst thou tread, clad in thy pride of birth, 



With high patrician step the streets of Rome ? 
I know not ; no one knew. A heavy gloom 
Wrapped thy last fortunes, luckless Marcian ! 
— Some told in after tunes that he was found. 
Dying, within the Inquisition's bound ; 
Some said that he did roam, a wretched man, 
In pilgrimage along the Arabian sands. 
And some that he did dwell in the far lands, 
Of vast America, with savage men, 
The chase his pastime, and his home a den. 

What object is there now to know ? what 
gain? 
He passed away and never came again. 
He left his home, his friends, his titles, all, 
To stand, or live, or perish in their pride, 
And seeking out some unknown country, — died. 
He died, and left no vain memorial 
Of him or of his deeds, for scorn or praise ; 
Nor record for the proud Colonna race 
To blot or blazon, cherish or compare, 
His fate is lost: his name (Uke others) — air. 

XVIII. 

My tale hath reached its end ; yet still there 
dwells 
A superstition in those piny dells. 
Near to Laverna. Forms, 'tis said, are seen 
Beside the cave where once Colonna lay. 
And shadows linger there at close of day. 
And dusky shapes amongst the forests green 
Pass off like vapours at the break of morn; 
And sometimes a faint figure (with a star 
Crowning her forehead) has been seen afar 
To haunt the cliff and hang her head forlorn : 
And peasants still, at the approach of night. 
Even at a distance shun that starry hght. 
And dread " The Lady of the Mountains" when 
She rises radiant from her haunted glen. 
The convent ? still it stands : its pile is strong, 
And well it echoes back the tempest's song : 
And still the cave is there ; but they, alone 
Who made it famous, — they are passed and 
gone. 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Heney Hart Milman was born in London in 
1791, and is the youngest son of Sir Francis Mil- 
man, an eminent physician. He received his 
early education at a school in Greenwich, where 
Dr. Charles Burney Avas his tutor. He was af- 
terwards placed at Eton, and in 1810 entered at 
Brazen-Nose College, Oxford. He soon became 
a distinguished scholar ; obtained prizes for Eng- 
lish and Latin verse, and for English and Latin 
essays ; and gained first honors in the examina- 
tions. In 1815 he became a fellow in his College ; 
and in 1817, took holy orders, and was presented 
to the vicarage of St. Mary, Reading. In 1821, 
he was elected professor of poetry in the Univer- 
sity. Mr. Milman's first appearance before the 
public was as the author of " Fazio," a tragedy. 
It met with considerable success ; and, after it 
had passed the ordeal of periodical criticism, was 
produced on the 5th of February, 1818, at Drury 
Lane Theatre. It was written, he states, "with 
some view to the stage;" it was successful in 
representation and is still occasionally performed. 
The nature of his professional duties probably 
prevented his again writing for the stage ; but in 
1820, he produced another dramatic work, the 
" Fall of Jerusalem." 

" Belshazzar," the " Martyr of Antioch," and 
"Anne Boleyn," are also dramatic; and these, 
with " Samor, Lord of the Bright City," and a 
few minor poems, comprise the whole of his pub- 
lished poetical productions. He has of late years, 
appeared but seldom before the world as an 
author. In 1830 he published a " History of the 
Jews," a work which gave rise to much contro- 
versy, and subjected the author to various attacks, 
on the ground that he desired to merge the divine 
in the historian, and to exhibit himself as a simple 
narrator of facts, without any regard to the source 
whence he derived his materials, as an inspired 
and infalhble record. He was accused of treating 
the Bible as a philosophical inquirer would treat 
any profane work of antiquity, — as having as- 
cribed to natural causes, events which the scrip- 
tures unequivocally declare to be miraculous, — 
and as having, therefore, unwittingly contributed 
to subvert the bulwarks of the faith he was bound, 
by every consideration of honor and consistency, 
to defend. Such criticisms, however, he ably and 
effectually combated. His recent " History of 
Christianity" has been still more severely handled 
by the theological critics. 

Mr. Milman is still the Vicar of St. Mary, 



Reading, and in that capacity he continues to 
reside. He is described as an eloquent preacher, 
and a zealous clergyman. In person he is tall ; 
his countenance is fine and expressive ; his man- 
ners are distant and reserved ; and, however dif- 
ferent he may be in the society of his friends, he 
is described by those who have but little inter- 
course with him as perpetually reminding them 
that he is a dignitary of the church to which he 
belongs ; and that he is indisposed to touch any 
thing " common or unclean." Mr. Milman is a 
learned Poet. His study has been the cloister ; 
and neither in the city nor in the green fields has 
he sought the Muse. Books, and not men, have 
been his companions. His poems are a fine ex- 
ample of sound intellect and cultivated taste ; but 
we look in vain through them for evidence of in- 
ventive power and originality of thought. He is 
certainly not an enthusiast, — and without enthu- 
siasm there never was a true poet. He brings 
Truth before us dressed in " fairy fiction," but he 
permits her to seek her way to the heart without 
any of those aids which imagination and a lively 
sensibility would have lent her. She leans upon 
judgment rather than upon fancy, and appears 
loath to receive any votaries who would worship 
' ' without knowing why or caring wherefore . " In 
a preface to one of his later poems, Mr. Milman 
expresses a hope that his works ' ' will tend to the 
advancement of those interests in subservience to 
which alone our time and talents can be worthily 
employed, — those of piety and religion." This 
is honorable to one, whose grand object is to for- 
ward, by every means, the cause of which he is 
the advocate ; and if he had been of a warmer 
temperament, he might have brought poetry 
effectually to his aid, — it has often been so 
brought, — in the task he has undertaken. But 
there is that cold pomp about his writings., a frigid 
dignity of style, and a want of sympathy with 
human passions and desires, — which, unhappily, 
defeat his purpose. The temple to which he 
would conduct his followers, is grand, lofty, and 
paved with marble ; but it chills us the moment 
we have passed the inner gate. Among religious 
readers, therefore, Mr. Milman has never been 
popular; and from the same causes, added to 
others, his fame in the world at large is not ex- 
tensive. His mind is of a high order, his know- 
ledge large and ready ; but he has little skill in 
mastering the heart, or in controlling the feelings, 
or in guiding the opinions of mankind. 



(463) 



SAMOR, 



463 



SAMOR, 
LORD OF THE BRIGHT CITY 

AN HEROIC POEM. 



et ! raodo spiritus adsit, 

Frangam Saxonicas Britonum sub Marte phalanges. 
Milton — Mansus. 



-the better fortitude 



Of patience and heroic martyrdom. 

Milton's Par. Lost, Book IX. 



PREFACE. 

The Historians* of the Empire, near the period 
of time at which this Poem commences, make 
mention of a Constantino, who assumed the pur- 
ple of the western empire, gained possession of 
Gaul and Spain, but was defeated and slain at 
the battle of Aries. He had a son named Con- 
sb'us, who became a monk, and was put to death 
at Vienne. 

About the same time a Constantino appears in 
the relations of the old British Chronicles and 
Romances. He was brother of the King of Armo- 
rica, and became himself King, or rather an 
elected sovereign of the petty Kings of Britain, t 
who continued their succession under the Roman 
dominion. He was called Vendigardt and Ware- 
dur, the Defender and Deliverer. He had three 
sons, Constans, who became a hermit, and was 
murdered, either (for the traditions vary) by the 
Picts, by Vortigern, or by the Saxons; Emrys, 
called by the Latin writers Aurehus Ambrosius ; 
and Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur. 
These two Constantines are here identified, and 
Vortigern supposed to have been named King of 
Britain, as the person of greatest authority and 
conduct in the wreck of the British army, defeated 
at Aries. Many, however, of the chiefs in the 
Island advancing the hereditary right, before for- 
mally settled on the sons of Constantine, Vorti- 
gern, mistrusting the Britons, and pressed by 
invasions of the Caledonians, introduced the 
Saxons to check the barbarians and strengthen 
his own sovereignty. 

The Hero of the Poem is an historical charac- 
ter, as far as such legends can be called History. 
He appears in most of the Chronicles, as Edol, 
(>■• Eldol, but the fullest account of his exploits is 
in Dugdale's Baronage under his title of Earl of 
Gloucester. William Harrison, however, in the 
description ' f Britain prefixed to Holinshed, calls 
him Eldulph de Samor. But all concur in ascrib- 
ing to him the acts which make the chief subject 
of the fifth and last Books of this Poem. 

Most of our present names of places being 
purely Saxon, and the old British having Httle of 
harmony or association to recommend them, I 
have frequently, on the authority of Camden and 



* Gibbon, Chap. 31. t Whitaker, Hist, of Manchester. 
JLewiSjHist. of Britain. 



others, translated them. Thus the Saxon Glou- 
cester, called by the Britons Caer Gloew, is the 
Bright City. The Dobuni, the inhabitants of the 
Vales, are called by that name. Some few sanc- 
tioned by old usages of Poetry and Romance I 
retain, as Kent, Thanet, Cornwall. London is 
Troynovant, as the City of the Trinobantes. 

Some passages in the Poem will be easily 
traced to their acknowledged sources, the Poets 
of Greece and Italy ; one, however, in the third 
book, relating to the northern mythology, has 
been remarkably anticipated in a modern Poem. 
The honourable Author may be assured that the 
coincidence is unintentional, as that part of this 
Poem was the earliest written, and previous to 
the appearance of his production. 



BOOK I. 

Land of my birth, Britain ! and my love ; 
Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose 

tongue 
My song would speak, its strong and solemn 

tones 
Most proud, if I abase not. Beauteous Isle, 
And plenteous ! what though in thy atmosphere 
Float not the taintless luxury of light. 
The dazzling azure of the Southern skies ; 
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown 
Spreads stainless and unsullied by a cloud. 
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine. 
And softer climes excel thee in the hue 
And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers, 
Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds ; 
Thou in the soul of man, thy better wealth, 
Art richest : nature's noblest produce thou, 
The immortal Mind in perfect height and 

strength, 
Bear'st v\'ith a prodigal opulence ; this thy right, 
Thy privilege of chmate and of soil, 
Would I assert : nor, save thy fame, invoke, 
Or Nymph, or Muse, that oft 'twas dream'd of 

old 
By falls of waters under haunted shades. 
Her ecstasy of inspiration pour'd 
O'er Poet's soul, and flooded all his powers 
With liquid glory : so may thy renown 
Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word 
The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire. 

Forth from the gates of Troynovant hath pas.s'd 
King Vortigern ; the Princes of the Isle 
Around him ; on the walls, for then (though now 
Scorn bounds her mighty wilderness of streets. 
And in magnificence of multitude 
Spread, and illimitable grandeur,) walls 
With jealous circuit and embattled range 
Girt Britain's narrow Capital; where swarm'd 
Eager her wondering citizens to see 
The Monarch. Him the Saxon Hengist met, 
And Horsa, with their bands in triumph led, 
As from a recent victory ; their blue eyes 
Sparkled, and proud they shook their saffron 

hair; 
And in the bicker of their spears, the toss 
Of ponderous mallets, the quich flash of swords, 



464 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



Th' emblazon' d White Horse on their banners 

waved, 
Was triumph. Thus King Vortigern began : 

" Welcome, DeUverers! ofour kingdom's foes. 
Welcome, thrice honour'd Conquerors', never 

more 
Shall painted Caledonian o'er our realm 
The chariots of his rapine wheel, so full 
The desolation, havoc so complete 
Hath smote and blasted in Erie Hengist's path. 
The mouldering ruins of our Roman wall. 
Leagued with the terror of the Saxon name, 
Shall be defence more mighty, than when soar'd 
Its battlements unbroken, and above 
The imperial Eagle shook its wings of gold. 
Oh, toil'd with victory, burthen'd with renown, 
For ye our baths float cool and clear, our air 
Is redolent with garland wreathes, and rich 
Within our royal citadel is crown' d 
For ye the banquet ; welcome once again, 
Mighty to save, and potent to defend !" 
A faint acclaim, a feeble sullen din 
Ensued, with less of gladness than fierce grief. 
And wrath ill stifled. Seeming all unmoved. 
Elate the Monarch onward led the way ; 
Slow follow' d Saxon Hengist's martial train. 
Clashing their armour loud, as they would daunt 
All Britain with the clamour : march' d behind 
The island Nobles, save some resftess hands 
Were busy with their sheathed swords, they 

moved 
Silent, and cold, and gloomy, as a range 
Of mountain pines, when cloudy lowers the 

storm. 

Upon the azure bosom of the Thames 
Reclining, with its ponderous mass of shade, 
Arose the royal Citadel, the work 
Of the great Csesar. Danger he and dread 
Of Rome and Pompey ; yet 'gainst savage foes 
Vantage of trench and tower and massy wall 
Scorn'd not, so swift, so perilous, so fierce 
Cassivelan his painted charioteers 
Whirl' d to the frantic onset, standing forth 
Portent of freedom 'mid a world enslaved. 

They pass'd the portal arch ; the sumptuous 
hall 
Flung back its gates ; around the banquet board 
Ranged Prince and Chieftain, where luxurious art 
Shower' d prodigal her dainties, poisons sweet. 
And baleful splendour. Fierce the Saxon gazed 
On goblet, and huge charger carved with gold. 
Contemptuous wonder. But the Monarch's brow 
'Gan lighten, as with greedy joy he quaflf'd 
Oblivious bliss ; thus ever guilty soul 
Woos frenzy, and, voluptuous from despair, 
Forgets itself to pleasure. High aloof, 
Each in his azure robe, the band of Bards 
Mingled the wanton luxuries of sound; 
Gentle melodious languor, melting falli 
With faint eflfeminate flattery the soul 
Guiling of manhood. Silent veil'd his harp 
White-hair'd Aneurin, and indignant tears 
Stood in the old man's eye, for wrathful shame 
To hear his god-Uke and heaven-breathing art 
Pampering loose revels with officious chime. 



Then rose the glorious madness ; forth he sprung 
With one rude stroke along the clashing chords 
Won silence deep as of a summer eve 
After a noontide storm ; his silver locks 
Waved proud, the kindling frenzy of his eye 
Flash'd triumph, as the song of Chariots rose. 
The song that o'er the van of battle shower'd 
Pale horror, when that scourged Icenian Queen 
Through the square legions drove her car ; were 

heard 
Her brazen wheels to madden, the keen scythes 
Gride through their iron harvest ; then rush'd 

rout, 
Wail'd havoc ; seem'd Bonduca fiercer urged 
The tramphng steeds ; behind her silence sank 
Along the dreary path of her revenge. 

Ceased the bold strain, then deep the Saxon 

drain' d 
The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth 
Lit his blue gleaming eyes : nor sate unmoved 
The Briton Chiefs ; fierce thoughts began to rise 
Of ancient wars, and high ancestral fame. 
Sudden came floating through the hall an air 
So strangely sweet, the o'erwrought sense scarce 

felt 
Its rich excess of pleasure ; softer sounds 
Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool, 
By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace 
Green circlets on the moonlight dews ; nor lull 
Becalmed mariners from rocks, where basks 
At summer noon the Sea-maid ; he his oar 
Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark 
Sleeps on the sleeping waters. Now the notes 
So gently died away, the silence seem'd 
Melodious ; merry now and light and blithe 
They danced on air: anon came tripping forth 
In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks 
Flower- wreath' d, their snowy robes from clasped 

zone 
Fell careless drooping, quick their glittering feet 
Glanced o'er the pavement. Then the pomp of 

sound 
Swell' d up, and mounted ; as the stately swan, 
Her milk-white neck embower'd in archmg 

spray. 
Queens it along the waters, entered in 
The lofty hall a shape so fair, it luU'd 
The music into silence, yet itself 
Pour'd out, prolonging the soft ecstasy, 
The trembhng and the touching of sweet sound. 
Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth 
And swimming majesty of step and tread, 
The symmetry of form and feature, set 
The soul afloat, even like delicious airs 
Of flute or harp: as though she trod from earth, 
And round her wore an emanating cloud 
Of harmony, the Lady moved. Too proud 
For less than absolute command, too soft 
For aught but gentle amorous thought : her hair 
Cluster'd, as from an orb of gold cast out j| 

A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save 
Here and there on her snowy neck reposed 
In a soothed brilliance some thin wandering tress. 
The azure flashing of her eye was fringed 
With virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem'd 
Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it 
As the light dew-shower on a tuft of flowers. 



SAMOR, 



465 



The soul wiihin seem'd feasting on high thoughts, 
That to the outward form and feature gave 
A lovehness of scorn, scorn that to feel 
Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back 
Those her fair harbingers, their modest eyes, 
Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks 
In graceful reverence ; she, by wond'ring gaze 
Unmoved, and stifled murmurs of applause. 
Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way 
To where the King, amid the festal pomp, 
Sate loftiest; as she raised. a fair-chased cup. 
Something of sweet confusion overspread 
Her features ; something tremulous broke in 
On her half-failing accents as she said, 
"Health to the King!" — the sparkling wine 

laugh'd up, 
As eager 'twere to touch so fair a lip. 

A moment, and the apparition bright 
Had parted ; as before the sound of harps 
Was wantoning about the festive hall. 

As one just waking from a blissful dream 
Nor moves, nor breathes, lest breath or motion 

break 
The beauteous tissue of fine form woven o'er 
His fancy, sate King Vortigern. " Whence came, 
And whither went she ? of what race and stem 
Sprang this bright wonder of our earth, that 

leaves 
The rapture of her presence in our hall, 
Though parted thence too swiftly?" — "King 

(rephed 
Erie Hengist) — in our ancient Saxon faith, 
111 bodes the joyless feast, where maiden's lips 
Pledge not the wassail goblet." — " By my soul," 
Cried Vortigern, " a gallant faith ! and I 
Omen so sweet discredit not ; the health 
Those smooth lips wish'd me, well those Ups 

might give, 
A fragrance and a sparkling have they left 
Even on the wine they touch'd." He said, and 

prest 
The goblet to his own. " A father's ear, 
King Vortigern, must love the flattering tongue 
That descants lavish on his daughter's praise." 
" Thy daughter? Saxon !" — "Mine, though vaunt 

not I 
Her beauty, many a German Erie and King 
Hath vow'd at his life's peril to proclaim 
Her far-surpassing comeliness." — None heard 
The secret converse that ensued. Lo, rose 
King Vortigern, and from his brow transferr'd 
A coronet of radiant Eastern gems 
To the white hair of Hengist, and drank off 
A brimming cup, and cried, " To Kent's high 

King, 
A iiealth, a health to Vortigern's fair bride. 
The golden-hair'd Rowena." — Seized at once 
Each Saxon the exulting strain, and struck 
The wine-drain'd goblet down, " Health, King of 

Kent!" 

As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood 
Perseus, in stern tranquillity of wrath, 
Half stood, half floated on his ancle plumes 
Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield 
Look'd into stone the raging fray ; so rose, 
59 



But with no magic arms, wearing alone 
Th' appaUing and control of his firm look, 
The solemn indignation of his brow, • 

The Briton Samor ; at his rising, awe 
Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute; 
But like unruffled summer waters flow'd 
His speech, and courtly reverence smoothed its 
tone. 

"Sovereign of Britain's Sovereigns I of our 
crowns 
The highest ! in our realm of many thrones 
Enthroned the loftiest! mighty as thou art, 
Thou dost outstep thy ampHtude of sway ; 
Thine is our isle to govern, not to give ; 
A free and sacred property hast- thou 
In our allegiance ; for a master's right 
Over our lives, our princedoms, and our souls, 
King Vortigern, as well may'st thou presume 
To a dominion o'er our winds, to set 
Thy stamp and impress on our light from heaven. 
This Britain cannot rest beneath the shade 
Of Saxon empire, this our Christian soil 
The harvest of obelSience will not bear 
To Heathen sway ; and hear me, Vortigern, 
The golden image that thou settest up, 
Like the pride-drunken Babylonian king, 
Though dulcimer and psaltery soothe us down 
To the soft humour of submission tame, 
We will not worship." — From the hall he past, 
Thus saying. Him the Island's brave and proud 
Follow'd, the high and fame-enamour'd souls. 
Never to Britain wanting, though in hours 
Loosest of revels soft, and wanton ease. 
But Vortigern, more largely pouring in 
The vine's dehcious poison, sate, and cried, 
" Whom the flax binds not, must the iron gyve, 
Whom seep tres daunt not, must the sword control.' 

Evening fe"i gentle, and the brilliant suu 
Was going down i.ito the waveless Thames, 
As bearing light und warmth to her cold Nymphs 
Within their crystal chambers, when the King 
Left the hall of banquet. Lofty and alone, 
Even as the Pillar great Alcides set. 
The limit of the world and his renown, 
On Calpe, round whose shaft the dayhght 

wreathed 
Its last empurpling, on the battlements 
Stood Samor in the amethystine light, 
And " Go to darkness, thou majestic orb I 
To-morrow shall the nations bask again 
In thy full glory." — Thus he said, and turn'd 
To where the King went rapid past. — " And thou. 
Thou to thy setting hastest, never more 
Thou thy benighted splendour to renew ; 
Late at thy noon of pride, now sunk, declined 
For ever from thy fair meridian, go 
Into thy cloudy rest !" — The solemn tone 
Of his deep voice seized on the King, as frosts 
Arrest the rapid flowing stream — " Wha-t means 
The Sovereign of the Vales, even in my halls, 
And on my castle battlements, to cast 
Bold scorn on Britain's King? Ingrate and blind, 
When I the valiant Saxon have brought in 
To check the Caledonian, through your isle 
Marching by wild light of your burning towns; 
Ye, wedded to your sorrow and your shame. 



466 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Mock at the safety my free love provides." 
" Ah, provident I ah, sage ! ah, generous King ! 
That sets the emaciate woli to dog the flock ; 
The hawk to guard the dovecote." — " Wise- 

lipp'd chief, 
I thank thee for thy phrase : doves are ye, doves 
That fly with piteous and most dehcate speed 
Before the Scottish kites, that swoop your nests 
And flesh their greedy talons in your young." — 
" Monarch ! the eaglet, were it smoothly nurst 
In the dove's downy nest, at its flrst flight 
Would shrink down dazzled from the morning sun; 
But with strong plumes refresh'd, anon 'twould 

claim 
Its old aspiring birthright, and unblench'd 
Bathe in the bickering of the noontide car. 
Oh, we have slumber'd on soft luxury's lap 
To her loose tabret; but, misjudging King! 
Britain is like her soil ; above the turf 
Lies velvet smooth, hard iron lurks beneath. 
I know the northern Pagans waste our land. 
And the tame mission to the Roman sent 
I know : ' The fierce Barbarian to the sea 
Drives us, the sea to the Barbarian back 
Merciless :' so ran the plaintive legend. True ! 
But soldiers would it cast us back ; despair 
Hath its own valour ; war makes warriors. King ! 
Calamities are on us, evil days 
O'er our isle darken, but the noble wear 
Disaster, as an Angel wears his wings. 
To elevate and glorify. Nor us 
Shrouded alone the enveloping gloom, the frame 
And fabric of our world is breaking up. 
Rome's dome of empire, that o'ervaulted earth 
With its capacious shadow, rent and split, 
Disorders the smooth course of human things. 
Leaving confusion lord of this wide ball, 
While to and fro the Nations sway perplex'd, 
Like a tempestuous sea. Oh, 'mid such wreck. 
Our Britain in lone safety to uphold, 
On every side 'gainst gathering foes present 
A rampire of hard steel, or firmer far, 
The bulwark of a haughty spirit pour'd 
From the throned Sovereign through her sons, 

were pride. 
Were honour, might arrest Heaven's plumed 

hosts, 
And in their sphere-born music win renown. 
So He whose sceptre glitters in thy grasp, 
He the Deliverer, the Defender named. 
So Constantine had done, had the high Soul's 

bane, 
Ambition, never madden'd him to wear 
The purple, madly worn, yet nobly lost 
On the sad plain by Aries," — " I knew, I knew 
'Twould come to this, that Constantine would end 
The high- wrought orat'ry. This too I know. 
And this I tell thee, Samor ! nor yet add 
Rebel ! thy secret commerce with his sons. 
To undermine my stately throne ; the right. 
So babble ye in your licentious phrase, 
Conferr'd by our assembled British Kings 
On Constantine for ever and his heirs." — 

" Alas ! how better were it to know nought, 
Than, like kings, darkly. Constantine's brave 

sons 
And Samor oft have met, have met to wail 



The hazard of their native land, to swear 
Before the altar of the eternal God, 
Never, amid these rude and perilous times, 
To blow the trump of civil strife, to prop 
With their allegiance Britain's throne, though 

fill'd 
By one they deem usurping. Vortigern ! 
I am upon the string that jars thy soul. 
And it must vibrate to its highest pitch. 
Oh what a royal madness, that might build 
Upon the strong rock' of a people's love. 
Yet chooseth the loose quicksand of distrust, 
And overlays the palace of his pride 
With a rude Saxon buttress, whose stern weight 
Must crush it. Thou dost fear thy subjects arm'd, 
Fear, lest the old valiance in their hearts inure. 
And therefore fight' st their wars with foreign 

steel ; 
And is this he, the noble and the wise. 
The Vortigern, that Britain on the plain 
Of Aries, that fatal plain, hail'd Captain, King? 
Arise, be King, be Captain, be thyself! 
And we will stand around thy throne, and mock 
The ruinous fashion of the times." — " Away ! 
My royal word is to the Saxon given." 
" 0, Vortigern ! this knee hath never bow'd, 
Save to the King of kings, thus low on earth 
I sue thee, cast the Saxon off." — At once 
The swift contagious grandeur set on fire 
The Monarch — " I am thine, am Britain's all: 
Now by my throne, thus, thus I have not felt. 
Since first this circling gold eat in my brow 
So free, so upright, and so kingly, chains 
Fall from me, mists are curhng off" my soul." 

Like two bold venturers, silently they stand, 
Launching amid the sunlight their rich bark 
O'er glassy waters to the summer airs : 
Their solemn pondering hath the lofty look 
Of vaunting, over each high brow flames out 
A noble rivalry of hope and pride. 

The sound of wheels, lo, sHding came and 
smooth 
A car, wherein, hke some fair idol led 
Through the mute tumult of adoring streets, 
Bright-hair'd Rowena pass'd the portal arch. 

Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy 
In beauty, that with such an artful touch 
And hght ye float about her garment folds. 
Displaying what is exquisite display'd. 
And thinly scattering the light veil where'er 
Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell 
With sweet officiousness the clustering hair 
Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall 
Where drooping most becomes ; that thus ye 

love 
To lose yourselves about her, and expire 
Upon her" shape, or snow-white robes ? She 

stood. 
Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out. 
As only in the obedience of her steeds 
Rejoicing ; they their necks arch'd proud and 

high, 
And by her delicate and flower-soft hands 
Sway'd, as enamour'd of her mastery moved, 



i 



J 



SAMOR, 



467 



Lovingly on their bright-chafed bits reposed, 
Or in gay sport upon each other fawn'd. 
But as the Monarch she beheld, she caught 
The slack rein up, and with unconscious check 
Delay'd the willing coursers, and her head. 
Upon her snowy shoulder half declined 
In languor of enjoyment, rising wore ■ 
Rosy confusion, and disorder fair 
Transiently on her pride of motion broke. 
Or chance, or meaning wander'd to his face 
Her eye, with half command, entreating half; 
Haughty to all the Avorld, but mild to him, 
Th' all admired admiring, and th' all awing 

awed — 
She look'd on him and trembled as she look'd. 

^' Alone she came, alone she went not on. 



BOOK II, 



Noon is ablaze in Heaven, but gloom, the gloom 
Of the brown forest's massy vault of shade, 
Is o'er the Kings of Britain ; the broad oaks, 
As in protection of that conclave proud, 
Like some old temple's dome, with mingling 

shade 
Meet overhead, around their rugged trunks 
Show like fantastic pillars closely set 
By Druids in mysterious circle, wont 
Here, when the earth abroad was bright and 

clear 
With moonshine, to install their midnight rites 
By blue nor earthly kindled fires, while Bards 
Pour'd more than music from their charmed 

harps. 
Each on his mossy seat, in arms that cast 
A glimmer which is hardly light, they sit 
Colossal, stern, and still; on every brow 
Indignant sorrow and sad vengeance lowers. 
Them had the Pagan peasant deem'd his gods, 
In cloudy wrath down stooping from the heavens 
To blast the mighty of mankind, and wreak 
On some old empire ruin and revenge. 

And first majestical, yet mild, arose 
A lofty shape, nor less than monarch seem'd. 
Whose royal look from souls bold, brave, and 

free, 
Not stooping slavery claim'd, but upright awe 
And noble homage ; yet uncrown'd he wore 
Dominionj him with stately reverence heard 
That armed Senate. ■" Princes of the land, 
Lords of the old hereditary thrones 
Of Britain, we, the sons of Constantine, 
Emrys and Uther, come not here to charge 
Inconstant counsel on your wisdom, nought 
Arraigning, that the septre to our line 
Solemnly given, in those disastrous days, 
When for the Empire of the Occident, 
For Gau) o'er-master'd, and submitted Spain, 
Warr'd Constantine, and warring nobly fell, 
Ye placed in elder hand, our right foregone 
For the more precious public weal : oh. Chiefs, 
'Twas well and wisely done-; a stripling's arm 
May rear the kingly standard in its pomp 



To play with Zephyrs under cloudless skies, 
But when the rude storm shakes its ponderous 

folds 
'Twere hard for less than the consummate man 
Aloft to bear it, yet unstooping. Well 
Stemm'd your new standard-bearer Vortigern 
The o'ershadowing tempest, nor abased his front 
Your crown's old glories ; till, alas ! dire change ! 
Dread fall ! the sceptre that ye fondly hoped, 
Would blossom, like the Hebrew Hierarch's rod. 
With the almond bloom of mercy and of love, 
Liker the Egyptian magic-worker's wand 
Became a serpent, withering all your peace 
With its infection : then your virtues wrought 
Your sorrows, from your valour grew your shame. 
Your borders were o'erleap'd, your towns on fire. 
And the land groan'd beneath fierce Rapine's 

wheels. 
Ye cried unto your King for arms, he sage 
In cold and jealous wisdom fear'd to arm, 
Whose arms might brave himself, and cast control 
On the fierce wanderings of his royal will. 
Saxons might fight our wars, our hard-wrung gold 
Buy us ignoble safety, till the slaves 
Swell'd into Lords, and realms must pamper 
Our hirelings into Princes : Kent, fair Kent, 
The frontlet of our isle, where yet are seen 
The graves great Cajsar peopled with his dead, 
When on his rear the Briton'conqueror hung, 
Where first the banner of the Cross was waved. 
Sinks to a Heathen province. Warriors ! Kings ! . 
This must not be among baptized men. 
This cannot be 'mong Britons. Therefore here. 
Here in your presence dare we call again, 
Your throne our throne, and challenge in your 

love 
A Sovereign's title : by our youth we fell 
From that great height, but Vortigern hath fall'n 
By his own guilt ; we therefore rise again 
In majesty renew'd ; he falls, no more 
To soar into the sacred royal seat." 
Thereat with concord loud, and stern acclaim, 
Gave answer that proud Senate, and denounced 
Judgment irrevocable. But with mien 
Somewhat appall'd, as one in high debate, 
And solemn council unassay'd, arose 
Prince Uther : ere he spake his clanging mail 
Smote \vith fierce stroke, as audience to enchain,... 
Himself the battle sound enkindling, high 
His haughty brow and crested helm upflung, 
Thus rude his fiery eloquence pour'd forth. 

■' Warriors of Britain ! me nor pomp of words 
Beseems, nor strife of smooth and liquid phrase, 
In the debate of swords, the fray of steeds 
No combatant unskill'd. I will not boast 
That I have brook' d with Emrys' patient pride 
A sceptre's loss : a boy, I wept to hear 
My father's crown was on a stranger's brow. 
But when my arm 'gan grasp a sword, those 

tears, 
Those soft imseemly waters, turn'd to hues 
Of burning indignation ; every crown 
Show'd, every kingly title to my ear 
Sounded a scorn and shame. Even at his height 
And plenitude of power I yearn'd to rise 
Against th' enthroned Usurper — now, O Kings 2 
Thus charter'd, thus commission'd, thus array'd. 



468 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



With what a noble frenzy will we rush, 

Trampling the wreck, of Saxon and of King ; 

Our path shall be as rapid and as bright 

xA.s summer meteor, more pernicious, that 

Waning into the dull unkindling air, 

We burning, desolating as we pass. 

On, Britons, on ! a tyrant fills your throne, 

Nor fitter monument may tyrant find 

Than his throne's ruins; let the flat earth close 

O'er both at once ; the stranger Saxon lords 

Within our isle, the seas that bore him here 

In his storm-braving navy, bear him back 

Weltering and tossing in their drowning surge." 

Low'ring he stood, still in fierce act of speech, 
Yet speechless. Sudden, then, in dread uproar 
Rose shout of war, with thundering clash of arms 
Mingled, then hurrying spears and nodding helms 
With glittering tumult in the pale gloom flash'd ; 
War, war each voice, each stricken shield de- 
nounced. 

Amid the multitudinous din arose 
Solemnly the Bright City's Lord ; down sunk 
Instant all tumult, broke abruptly off 
Fierce voice and clash of arms : so mute and deep 
Settled the silence, the low sound was heard 
Of distant waterfall; the acorn drop 
From the green arch above. Still and abash'd 
Sate the fierce conclave, while with mild reproof 
Winning all hearts, the gracious Chieftain spake. 

"Brave sight for earth, and heaven! it doth 

not fail. 
A nation's cry for freedom and for faith. 
Nor faint, nor deaden in the mist and gloom 
Of this low earth, it takes the morning's wings, 
Passeth the crystal skies, and beats heaven's 

gate; 
There glideth through the gladdening Angel 

choirs. 
That fan it onward with their favouring plumes, 
To the eternal sapphire throne, and him 
That sits thereon. Ineffable. O Kings ! 
Our council thus appealing may not wear 
Seeming of earthly passion, lust of sway. 
Or frenetic vengeance : we must rise in wrath, 
But wear it as a mourner's robe of grief, 
Not as .a garb of joy : must boldly strike, 
But Uke the Roman, with reverted face, 
In sorrow to be so enforced. Brave Chiefs, 
It would misseem a son of this proud isle, 
To trample on the fallen, though a King ; 
It would misseem a Christian to rejoice 
Where virtue hath play'd false, and fame's pure 

light 
Hath sicken' d to dishonourable gloom. 
Vortigern is our foe, no more our King, 
Yet king he hath been, king he had been still, 
Had never his high vaulting pride disdain' d 
The smooth dominion of old use, nor striven 
To fix on our impatient necks the yoke 
Of foreign usurpation ; our free land 
Will not endure the heathen Saxon's rule, 
Nor him that rules by heathen Saxon power. 
So march we forth in th' armour of our right, 
From our once King not faUing off in hate 
">r fickleness, but by severe constraint 



Of duty to ourselves and to our God. 

So march we forth, and in such state may make 

Our mother land to vaunt of us : raise up, 

Side by side, the fair airs to captivate 

To an approval of our upright deed , 

Our royal banner and the Cross of Christ ; 

And move within their cirque of splendour, calm, 

And yet resistless as the bright-maned steeds 

That bear the Morn to disenthrone old Night. 

" And now our kingly sceptre, forced aside. 
By stress and pressure of disorder'd times, 
Devious into an alien hand, reverts 
To the old line ; ihe heir of Constantine, 
Constans, the elder than this noble pair, 
Stands foremost on succession's golden roll. 
Nor know not I his gentle soul more apt, 
To listen the soft flowing vesper hymn. 
Than danger's spirit-stirring trump, yet deem. 
Thus once forewarn' d 'tis dangerotis to divert 
The stream of royal blood, that broken, pours 
Waters of bitterness and civil strife 
O'er th' harrass'd land, and therefore thus hail I 
Constans the King of Britain. Speak I right? 
I pause, and wait, Chiefs ! your high award." 

He ceased, nor time for voice or swift acclaim, 
Scowling a sullen laugh of scorn, leap'd forth 
The mountain King, the Sovereign of the lakes 
And dales this side the Caledonian bound; 
He only, when the Kings sate awe-struck, stood 
Elate with mocking pity in his frown ; 
A mighty savage, he of God and man 
Alike contemptuous : nought of Christian lore 
Knew he, yet scoff'd unknown, 'twas peaceful, 

meek, 
Thence worthless knowledge. Him delighted 

more 
Helvellyn's cloud-wrapt brow to chmb, and share 
The eagle's stormy solitude ; 'mid wreck 
Of whirlwinds and dire lightnings huge he stood, 
Where his own Gods he deem'd on volleying 

clouds 
Abroad were riding and black hurricane. 
Them in their misty pride assail' d he oft 
With impious threat, and laugh'd when th' echo- 
ing glens 
His wild defiance cast unanswer'd back. 
Now with cmi'd lip of scorn, and brow uplift, 
Lordly command, not counsel fierce he spake. 
— " Shame, coward shame! as though the fowls 

of heaven, 
When in dusk majesty and pride of wing 
Sails forth the monarch eagle, down should stoop 
In homage to the daw. craven souls I 
When Snowdon or high Skiddaw's brow is bare, 
To plant the stately standard of revolt 
Upon a molehill. Constans ! that to him 
Caswallon should bow down ; aloft our crown 
Upon the giddy banner staff, that rocks 
On Troynovaht's tall citadel, uphang. 
And who the dizzy glory will rend down. 
Or Constans or Caswallon? The bright throne 
Environ with grim ranks of steel-girt men : 
Huge Saxons black with grisly scars of war, 
Who first will hew to that triumphal seat 
His ruinous path ? Hear, sceptred Britons, hear, 
A counsel worthy the deep thoughts of kings : 



SAMOR. 



469 



Of valorous achievement and bold deeds 

Be guerdon to the mightiest of our Isle, 

The Sov'reignty of Britain ; spurn my voice, 

And I renounce your counsels, cast you off. 

And with my hardy vassals of the north 

I join-the Saxon." — Then fierce sounds again 

Broke out, wan flames of brandish'd armour 

flash'd. 
In rude disorder and infuriate haste 
Sprang every warrior from his seat, as clouds 
Amid the sultry heaven, thunderous and vast, 
Gather their blackening disarray to burst 
Upon some mountain turret, so the Chiefs 
Banded their fierce confusion to rush on, 
And whelm in his insulting pride the foe. 
He stood as one in joy, and lower'd a smile, 
With wolf-skin robe flung back, broad shield out- 

stretch'd, 
A battle-axe uplift : vaunting and huge 
As fabled giant on embattled Heaven, 
Glaring not less than utter overthrow. 
And total wreck. Forthwith a youth rush'dout, 
His moony buckler high upheld to bar 
The onset, and with voice, which youthful awe 
Temper'd to tone less resolute, address'd 
The haughty Chieftain. ' ' Father, deem not thou, 
Malwyn confederate in thy lawless thought ; 
Mine is a Briton's soul, a Briton's sword. 
But mortal man that seeks thy life, must pass 
O'er Malwyn's corpse." Back Chief and King 

recoil'd, 
In breathless admiration. Nobler pride. 
And human joy almost to softness smoothed 
Caswallon's rugged brow. " Well hast thou said. 
Son of Caswallon, worthy of thy sire ! 
On thine own track mount thou to fame, nor 

swerve 
For man, or more than man.' ' — Awhile the Kings 
Brief parley held, then stately and severe 
Rose Emrys, and pronounced their stern arrest. 

" Caswallon of the Mountains, long our isle 
Hath mark'd thy wavering mood, now friend now 

foe ; 
Now in the Caledonian inroad prompt 
To bear thy share in rapine, foremost now 
In our high councils. This we further say. 
We scorn thy war, Caswallon, hate thy peace. 
And deem it of our mercy that, unscathed. 
We ban thee from our presence." Nor reply 
Caswallon deign'd ; calm strode he as in scorn 
Of wrath 'gainst foes so lowly. Far was heard 
His tread along the rocky path, the crash 
Of branches rent by his unstooping helm. 
They in blank wonder sate, nor wholly quell'd 
Wrath and insulted majesty, with look 
As he were still in presence fix'd, and stern. 
Then spake Prince Emrys, " Not of trivial toil 
To shape the rude trunk of our enterprise 
To smooth perfection ; defeply must we found. 
And strongly build the fabric of our hopes, 
And each must hold his charge. Be, Samor, thine 
To bear our brother Constans Britain's crown, 
In name of our assembled Kings. Be mine 
From the Armoric shore, King Heel's realm, 
(Our father's brother, Hoel) to embark 
The succours of his high famed Chivalry. 
Thou, Uther, to the West ; each other King 



Unto his own, at signal of revolt 

To lead his armed Vassalage abroad." 

So saying, each departed ; fell again 
The ancient silence on the solemn place. 

Together from the forest pass'd the friends, 
Samor and Elidure ; below their way 
Went wandering on through flowery meads, or 

sank 
Beneath green arches dim of beechen shade. 
Around the golden hills in summer wealth 
Bask'd in the sunshine ; on a river bank 
Long gleaming down its woodland course, reposed 
Many a white hamlet : even fierce shrines of war 
Wore aspect mild of peace ; towers dark of yore 
And rugged in the Roman war array. 
With wanton ivy and grey moss o'ergrown. 
Their green crowns melted in the azure heavens. 

" Oh grief! o'er yon fair meads and smiling 
lawns 
Must steeds of carnage batten, men of blood 
Their fell magnificence of murderous pomp 
Pavilion in yon placid groves of peace. 
The blood-thirst savages of wood and air. 
In meet abodes of wilderness and woe, 
Shroud their abhorred revels ; the gaunt wolf 
Prowls gloomy o'er the wintry blasted heath ; 
Brood desolate on some bare mountain peak 
Raven and screaming vulture. Man, fell man, 
Envious of bhss he scorns, 'mid haunts of peace. 
Spots fair and blissful, the rare stars of earth, 
Plays ever his foul game of sport and death. 
Ruthless, then vaunts himself Creation's pride. 
Supreme o'er all alone in deeds of blood." 

Thus Elidure ; him Samor, from deep trance 
Wakening, address'd : " Soft man of peace, my 

prayer 
Would ask of heaven no theatre of strife 
Save yon fair plain : there forth the weak would 

start 
In the tumultuous valour of despair, 
The timorous proudly tower in scorn of death : 
There, where each tree, each dell, each grassy 

knoll. 
Lovely from memory of some past delight, 
Is kindred to the soul ; his house of prayer, 
The altar of his bridal vow, the font 
Of his sweet infant's baptism, kindred all, 
Holiest and last, his fathers' peaceful graves : 
Oh, were all Britain, like yon beauteous plain, 
Bhssful and free, that angels there miglit walk 
Forgetful of their heavenly bowers of light, 
Friend of my boyhood, these all-conquering foes. 
Who fetter the free winds, and ride the sea 
Kinglike, their menacing prows would turn aloof. 
And bitterly, in bafliled lust of prey. 
Curse the proud happiness that mock'd their 

might." 

Lo, here he paused, gay files of dazzling light 
Slow o'er the plain advancing, indistinct 
From their full brightness ; gradual the long blaze 
Broke into form, and lance and bow and helm. 
Standard and streamer, chariot and fair steed. 
Start from the mingled splendour. On their height. 



470 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



Unseen, the Chieftains watch'd the winding pomp , 
And all before the azure-vested Bards 
From glancing instruments shook bridal glee. 
Then came the gorgeous chariots, rough with 

gold, 
And steeds their proud heads nodding with rich 

weight 
Of frontlet wreathed with flowers and shadowy 

plumes ; 
Therein sate ladies robed in costly state, 
Each like a Queen ; the noble charioteers, 
Briton in garb, with purple mantle loose, 
O'er steel, in network bright, or scale o'er scale, 
Glittering, and aventayle barr'd close and firm. 
As yet the gaudy traitors shamed to meet 
The cold keen glance of countrymen betray' d. 
Dark in their iron arms, some wildly girt 
With Caledonian spoils, their yellow hair 
Down from the casque in broad luxuriant flow 
Spreading, and lofty banner wide display'd, 
Whereon a milk-white courser reinless shone, 
Paced forth the Saxon warriors. High o'er all. 
Tempestuous Horsa, chafing his hot steed, 
And Hengist with his wreath of amber beads,* 
His hoary strength, in spite of age or toil, 
A tower of might ; with that tall grove of spears. 
Circled, and rampire close of serried shields, 
The bridegroom Monarch rode, his bright attire 
Peaceful, as fitting nuptial pomp, his robe 
Rich-floating strew'd the earth with purple shade, 
And on his lofty brow a regal crown. 
Bright as a wreath of sun-beams ; high his arm 
The ivory sceptre bore of kingly sway : 
Yet who his mien and bearing watch' d had seen 
Dim gleam of jealous steel, or lurking mail 
Beneath those glorious trappings, for his gaze, 
Now jocund, changed anon to wandering stare, 
Fearful and wild, as the still air were rife 
With vengeful javelins showering death ; his pace 
Hurried, yet tardy, as of one who rides 
O'er land still tottering with an earthquake shock. 

And him beside, on snowy palfrey, deck'd 
With silver bells its pendent mane profuse. 
Of silver and of stainless ernielin 
The bright caparisons, and all her robes 
White as of woven lily cups, the Bride 
Majestic rode as on a waving throne. 
Her sunbright hair she waved, and smiled around. 
As though, of less than kingly Paramour 
Scornful, she said, Lo, Britain, through your 

land 
I lead the enthralled sovereign of your isle. 
Yet so surpassing fair, brief instant wish'd 
Those wrathful Briton Chiefs their leafy screen 
A thin transparent cloud : of his high charge 
Brief while forgetful, Samor stood entranced, 
Fearing her form should fleet too swift away. 

Came it from earth or air, yon savage shape, 
His garb, if garb it be, of shaggy hair 
Close folding o'er his dusky limbs, his locks 
And waving matted beard like cypress boughs 
On bleak heath swaying to the midnight storm ? 
Came he fronr yon deep wood? On the light spray 



* He is so decorated by the Welsh Poets. See Transl. 
of the Brut, of Tysilic, Uy I etei Roberts. 



No leaf is stirring. On the winged winds 

Rode he ? No breeze awakes the noontide air. 

'Mid that armed throng, dismaying, undismay'd, 

With a strange eye dilated, as unused 

To common sights of earth, and voice that seem'd 

Rarely to hold discourse with human ears, 

" Joy," and again, and thrice he uttered " Joy." 

Cower'd Horsa on his palsied steed ; aghast, 

As toiling to despise the thing he fear'd, 

Sate Hengist. " Joy to Bridegroom and to Bride '. 

Why should not man rejoice, and earth be glad ? 

Beyond the sphere of man, the round of earth, 

There's loud rejoicing ; 'tis not in the heavens ! 

And many ministrant Angels shake their wings 

In gladness, wings that are not plumed with light. 

The dead are jocund, not the dead in bliss. 

Your couch is blest — by all whose blessings blast. 

All things unlovely gratulate your love. 

I see the nuptial pomp, the nuptial song 

I hear, and full the pomp, for Hate, and Fear, 

And excellent Dishonour, and bright Shame, 

And rose-cheek'd Grief, and jovial Discontent, 

And that majestic herald. Infamy, 

And that high noble. Servitude, are there, 

A blithesome troop, a gay and festive crew. 

And the Land's curses are the bridal hymn ; 

Sweetly and shrilly doth th' accordant Isle 

Imprecate the glad Hymenean song. 

So joy again, I say, to Britain's King, 

That taketh to his bosom Britain's fate, 

Her beautiful destruction to his bed. 

And joy to Britain's Queen, who bears her Lord 

So bright a dowry and profuse, long years 

Of war and havoc, and fair streams of blood, 

And plenteous ruin, loss of crown and fame. 

And full perdition of the immortal soul ; 

So thrice again I utter 'joy,' 'joy,' ' joy !' " 

Then up sprung spear to strike, and bicker'd 
bow : 
Ere spear could strike, or shaft could fly, the path 
Was bare and vacant ; shape nor sound remain'd ; 
Only the voice of Vortigern moan'd out, 
" Merlin," — and on the long procession pass'd. 

Down in a quiet dale, where beechen groves 
With interchanging gold and glossy green 
O'ermantled the smooth slopes, that fell around 
Like a fair amphitheatre, beneath 
A brook went wand'ring through fresh meadovir 

banks, 
With a cool summer dashing, here the Chiefs 
The royal Hermit met, his gentle brow 
Smooth as a slumbering Angel's plumes (effaced 
All traces of this rude and wearing earth. 
All brands of fiery passions, wild desires) 
Wore that calm hoHness the sainted dead 
Smile on the visions of their loved on earth : 
His life was like a sleep, with heavenly sights, 
And harmonies, as of angehc sounds 
Visited ever, nor his barren heart 
Touch'd not the light affections, trembled not 
His spirit with love's fervent swell, but all 
Most wont to bear man's soul to earth, round him 
As the thin morning clouds around the lark, 
Gather'd, to float him upward to the heavens. 

They at his feet down laid the kingly crown 



S A M R . 



471 



FulfiU'd their lofty mission. He, the while, 
With that mild sadness he had walch'd the 

leaves 
Drip from the sere autumnal bough, survey'd 
Its stately glittering. ' ' Man of earth, why mock, 
With gaudy pageantry, and titled pomp, 
The frail and transient pilgrims of this world. 
The fading flag-flower on yon streamlet brink, 
Were garland meeter for our mortal brows 
Than yon rich blaze of gems." " Prince," Samor 

spake, 
" Sweet is it down the silent vale of life 
To glide away, of all but Heaven forgot. 
Forgetting all but Heaven. Of king-born men, 
Lords of mankind, high delegates of Heaven, 
Loftier the doom, their rare prerogative 
The luxury of conferring bliss. Oh, Prince ! 
Not by the stream to slumber, nor to waste 
Idly in joyous dreams the drowsy hours, 
Hath Heaven thy kingly heritage ordain'd ; 
Set badge of Empiry on thy brow : of god 
The noblest service is to serve mankind, 
To save a nation all a mortal's power, 
To imitate the Saviour of the world." 

Calm answer'd Constans: "Earth's exalted 
fame, 
Grandeurs and glories gleam upon my soul 
Like wintery sunlight on a plain of snow. 
With prayers, a Hermit's arms, I aid your cause — 
Farewell. Why pause ye, as to question more 
The wisdom of my choice — lo, yon fair orb ; 
How spotless the fine azure where he holds 
His secret palace, knows not his pure light 
A stain of dimness, till th' abode of men 
Pours o'er it its infectious mists." " Oh, Prince ! 
'Tis not the glory of that peerless light. 
The barren glittering, the unfruitful waste 
Of splendour on the still inanimate skies ; 
It is the life, the motion, and the joy 
It breathes along this world of man, the broad 
Munificence of blessing that awakes, 
And in its rapturous gratitude springs up. 
To glorify its bounteous source of pride." 

" I see thy brow at thine own words on fire ; 
Mine, Samor, yet is calm and cold." "Dost 

thou, 
Constans, all title, claim, and right renounce 
To Britain's throne ?" " Even free as I renounce 
The everlasting enemy of man." 
" Will thy voice mingle with the general cry, 
" Long live King Emrys?"— " Long may Em- 

rys live, 
Even the eternal life beyond the grave." 

"Yet one word more: 'tis perilous in the 

storm 
For the tall pine, nor less, ia evil days. 
For the high-born and exalted of the state. 
The Saxon blood-hounds are abroad for prey, 
Seek thou some quiet solitude remote, 
Beyond their prowHng range." — His arm to 

Heaven 
Slowly uplifted, " Will they reach me there ?" 
Spake the meek Hermit, " there is rest secure." 

They parted ; gentle Elidure alone, 



Lingering with somewhat of an envious gaze, 
View'd the deep quiet of that placid dell. 

That night were seen along the dusky wood, 
Of more than human stature moving forms, 
Pale faces circled with black iron helms, 
Not of the Briton shape their garb or arms; 
Stealthy their pace and slow; the peasants 

thought 
Demons of evil that sad night had power. 
And pray'd Heaven's grace to guard the saintly 

man. 

At morn roved forth the peasant, down the 
dale 
His dog went bounding to the Hermh's cell. 
For all mute creatures loved the man of God. 
A q.uick and desolate moaning nearer call'd 
The peasant ; in officious grief the dog 
Stood licking the cold hand that drooping hung 
Lifeless ; the mild composure of his brow 
On the cross rested ; praying he had died. 
And his cold features yet were smiling prayer. 



BOOK III. 



Orient the bright-hair'd Charioteer of heaven 
Pour'd daylight from his opal wheels, and struck" 
From the blue pavement of the sky clear flakes 
Of azure light upon the Eastern sea. 
And as the grey mists slowly curl'd away, 
Rose the white cliffs of Kent, like palace fair, 
Or fane of snowy marble, to enshrine 
Blue Amphiirite, or the Sea-Gods old 
Of Pagan mariner. Rode tall below 
The Saxon navy, as from midnight sleep 
Wakening ; the grey sails in the breeze of morn 
'Gan tremble, gleaming oars flash in the spray. 
The Sea-Kings on the beach in parley stern 
Were met, nor less than nation's doom and fate 
Of kingdoms in their voice. Lo, in the midst 
Stood huge Caswallon ; word of mild salute 
Deign'd not, but thus addrest the Ocean Lord. 

" Saxon ! that o'er this fair and princely isle 
Thou wouldst win empire by the sword of war 
I marvel not, arraign not — 'tis a dream, 
Noble as o'er the heavens to walk abroad. 
Companion of yon bright majestic sun. 
Now, by my glory, Saxon, mortal peer 
Never Caswallon brook'd, save thee alone, 
Thee, rival in his race of pride and power. 
Arm'd with myself and all th' embattled North, 
Not Roman Britons, sons of sires who dash'd 
The purple Conquerors' haughty wall to earth, 
And trampled their strewn ramparts ; who ne'er 

deign'd 
Barter for gaudy robe and marble pile, 
Fierce naked freedom, and wild mountain cave, 
Will I, and thou with Saxon spears begirt, 
Bow this fair Britain to our lordly sway. 
Then will we two, from pale perplexed earth 
Seen, like twin meteors battling in high heaven, 
On some lone eminence wage glorious strife. 
Sole empire meed of conquest, of defeat 



473 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



Utter annihilation, dark and full, 
Solace and lofty comfort." Bold he paused, 
Nor Hengist with pale sign of awe or dread 
Shamed the proud peerage, but with hardy 

speech 
Guileful, won faith by seeming scorn of guile. 

" Briton, to dare high deeds, and to disown, 
Argues a wavering valour ; the firm soul 
Vaunts resolute its lofty dangerous scope. 
To us our gods o'er ocean and its shores 
Kingly dominion and wide sway have given ; 
Were insult to our might and base reproach. 
The freedom of one sea-girt isle, to thee 
Honouring, not fearing, 'mid our prime we grant 
Transcendent slate, and eminence of power. 
Now speed we of th' immortal Powers in Heaven, 
Our high omniscient Fathers, to demand 
If on the eternal shield of fate be graven 
Ruin or Conquest, ere to bold emprize 
We gird our brazen arms." — " Of mighty men 
The gods are mighty, whom the Saxon fears. 
The paramount of men, 'twere rash to scorn. 
No calm and sunshine deities of peace." — 

So spake Caswallon, the mild faith of Christ 
Scoffing with covert mockery ; thus th' All Wise 
The imaginations of the proud on earth 
Silent endures, till some brief point of time 
Crumbles the high-built insolence of years. 

"Wilt thou behold our gods?" fierce Horsa 

cried. 
" Then mount the bark, abroad her wings are 

spread. 
And fleet along the obedient deep she speeds. 
Fear not, proud Briton." — "Fear!" Caswallon 

cried ; 
All iron as he stood, o'er surf, surge, wave 
He bounded, hollow rang his heavy arms. 
The bark her tall side to the troubled waves 
Stoop'd groaning ; nor delay'd the Ocean King. 

" Brother, farewell ! not singly the bold wolf 
Scatters the mountain herd ; in grim repose 
He rests expectant of his kindred troop, 
Numberless from their shaggy dens they sweep. 
And spacious o'er the antler'd monarch's realm 
Spreads the wide ravage of their muster'd 

might." 
Stern Horsa bovv'd assent, yet paused to watch 
The proud bark tilting o'er the azure plain. 
Stately she rode her path of light, her sails 
In dalliance with the courteous winds : bold 

Man ! 
Well may thy full heart bound : in earth and air 
The thunder-maned steed, the eagle throned 
In the pavilion of his plumes, stand forth 
Creation's glories ; but the noblest shape 
That walks the deep thy workmanship sublime 
Owneth, and starts from thee to life. Vaunt 

thou. 
Yet humbly vaunt, all greatness is from God. 

What dolphin glancing in his silver sport, 
More graceful with translucent pinion parts 
The liquid azure ? what Leviathan, 
Huge heaving on the thick Norwegian foam, 



More lordly than the white-wing'd bark, tha 

wafts 
The Sea-King o'er his empire ? the fair waves 
Rise in their gamesome turbulence, and pay j 

Wild homage to that royal Mariner. 

The motion and the murmur of the deep, 
The rushing of the silent, solemn sky. 
Each in its deep abyss and pure expanse, 
Seeming its secret mysteries of might. 
Its ruling soul of everlasting change. 
To veil from mortal knowledge, ever pour, 
O'er savage ev'n and rude, tumultuous awe. 
And exultation of a pleasing dread. 
From dizzy notions of infinity. 
Vague sense of ever-during sights and sounds, 
Inactive though the body, the free spirit, 
Vagrant along the illimitable void. 
Perils uncouth and rich uncertainties 
Ranges in restless round, plucks treasures rare, 
That gem the caverns of the hoary deep, 
Or bathes with sea-maids in their crystal bowers, 
Or with gay creatures and fantastical 
Peoples some dreary land ; such joys of old 
Lured the fierce Saxon from his darksome 

woods. 
To launch along the vast and barren sea. 
Such joys through this long voyage, wean'd brief 

while 
From thoughts of war and war-won empire wide, 
Haughty Caswallon, or from him assumed 
Fierce aspect, and a battailous character. 

'Twas midnight, but a rich unnatural dawn 
Sheets the fired Arctic heaven ; forth springs an 

arch , 
O'erspanning with a crystal pathway pure 
The starry sky, as though for gods to march 
With show of heavenly warfare daunting earth. 
To that wild revel of the northern clouds, 
That now wiih broad and bannery hght distinct. 
Stream in their restless wavings to and fro, 
While the sfa-billows gleam them mellower 

back ; 
Anon like slender lances bright upstart, 
And clash and cross with hurtle and with flash. 
Tilting their airy tournament. — "Brave signs," 
Cried Hengist; "lo, our gods their standards 

rear. 
And with glad omen of immortal strife 
Salute our high-wing'd purpose." — " Yea (re- 
turn' d 
Caswallon) from mine own Helvellyn's brow, 
Never a brighter conflict in the skies 
Taught me that war was dear in Heaven : dream 

ye 
Of tamer faith in gentle Southern skies 
Your smooth and basking deities ; our North 
Woos not with tender hues and sunny smiles 
Soft worship, but emblazons all the air 
With semblance of celestial strife, unveils 
To us of their empyreal halls the pomp. 
The secret majesty of godlike war." 

Oh Lord of Lords ! incessant thus assail'd 
That pagan with his frantic railings Thee, 
Th' Ineffable, yet worshipp'd of thy power 
A faint and pale efl^ect, reflection dim 



SAMOR. 



473 



From thy soul-blinding glories. On they sail'd, 
Till o'er the dark deep now the wintry winds 
Swept on their murky pinions, huge and high 
The liquid legions of the main arose ; 
Like snow upon the sable pines, the foam 
Hung hoary on their tower'd fronts; but slow. 
Like a triumphant warrior, their bold bark 
Wore onward, now upon th^ loftiest height 
Shaking its streamers' gay defiance, now 
With brave devotion to the prone abyss 
Down rushing. But the sternest Saxon cheek 
Put not to shame that dauntless Landsman ; he 
In the strong passion of a new delight 
On the fierce tumult feasts, and almost grieves. 
When now beneath the haven rocks embay'd. 
The angry waves seem wearying to repose, 
And the slack sails slow droop their flagging 
folds. 

Their port was southward of that Strait, where 
bursts 
The Baltic, with her massy waves of ice 
Encumbering far and wide the Northern main. 

South, North, and East, the rapid heralds 
speed. 
Summoning from fen or forest, moor or wild, 
Britain ! on thee to banquet, all who bathe 
In Weser, Elbe, or Rhine, their saffron locks, 
Hertog and Erie and King ; the huntsman bold 
Of bear, or bison, o'er the quaking moss. 
Or grim Vikinger, who but sues his gods 
For tempests, so upon some wealthy coast 
Bursts unforeseen his midnight frigate fierce. 
And freights its greedy hold with amplest spoil. 

And now have Hengist and Caswallon climb'd 
The chariot of the Oracle ; no wheels 
Bear that strange car ; like wind along the sea. 
It glides along the rapid rein-deer's track. 
Beauteous those gentle rein-deer arch'd their 

necks. 
And cast their palmy antlers back, and spread 
Their broad red nostrils to the wind : they hear 
OldTJengist's voice, like arrows down the gale, 
Like shot-stars through the welkin start they 

forth. 
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet: they 

pass 
Dark leagues of pine and fir, the filmy light. 
Shivering with every motion of the wind 
On their brown path lies tremulous, o'er them 

sails. 
Heard through the dismal foliage hissing shrill. 
And hoarser groaning of the swaying boughs, 
The funeral descant of the ominous birds. 
Around them the prophetic milk-white steeds,* 
Their necks yet virgin of the taming curb. 
With all their loose long glories, arch, and pass 
In solemn silence, and regardless paw 
The unechoing earth. But that old German, set 



* Proprium gentls, equorum quoque prajsagia ac 
monitus experiri: publice aluntur iisdem nemoribus ac 
lucis. Candidi, et nullo mortali opere contact], quos 
presses sacro curru sacerdos ac rex vel princeps civi- 
tatis comitantur, liinnitusque ac fremitus observant. — 
Tacit. Qerm 

60 



Inflexible with bolder hand to draw 
The veil of dusk futurity, disdains 
These tamer omens. Still the car sUdes light, 
The deer bound fleet, they pause not, save to quail 
The narrow cruise, to share their scanty store. 
Like swallows o'er the glassy rivers smooth. 
O'er the pellucid lake, with glittering breast 
Yet wrinkled with its ripphng waves, they skim ; 
The dead unstirring ocean bears them on ; 
Amid the immortal ice-hills wind they now. 

In restless change, God's softer summer works 
Glitter and fade, are born and die ; but these, 
Endiadem'd by undissolving snows, 
High Potentates of winter's drear domain, 
Accumulate their everlasting bulk. 
Eternal and imperishable, stand 
Amid Creation's swift inconstant round, 
In majesty of silence undisturb'd, 
Save when from their long menacing brows they 

shake 
The ruining Avalanche ; unvisited 
By motion, but of sailing clouds, when sleets 
From their unwasting granary barb their darts, 
And the grim North- wind loads his rimy winge. 
Nor trace of man, save many a fathom deep, 
Haply dark signs of some tall people strange, 
That walk'd the infant earth, may shroud pro- 
found 
Their legends inaccessible. They soar 
In headlong precipice, or pyramid 
Linking the earth and heaven, to which the piles 
Where those Egyptian despots rot subHme, 
Or even that frantic Babylonian tower, 
Were frivolous domes for laughter and for scorn. 

Nor wants some interchange of vale, where 
smiles 
White mimicry of foliage and thin flower. 
Feathery and fanlike spreads the leafy ice. 
With drooping cup, and roving tendril loose. 
As though the glassy dews o'er flower and herb 
Their silken moisture had congeal'd, and yet 
Within that slender veil their knots profuse 
Blossom'd and blush'd with tender life, the coucli 
Less various where the fabled Zephyr fans 
With his mild wings his Flora's bloomy locks; 
But colourless and cold, these flowering vales 
Seem meeter for decrepit Winter's head 
To lie in numb repose. The car slides light, 
The deer bound fleet, the long grey wilderness 
Hath something of a roseate glimmering dim, 
And widens still its pale expanse : when lo, 
A light of azure, wavering to display 
No sights, no shapes of darkness and of fear. 
Tremblingly flash'd the inconstant meteor light. 
Showing thin forms, Hke virgins of this earth, 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile or tear had seem'd 
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek. 
Strange and unnatural : statues not unhke 
By nature, in fantastic mood congeal'd 
From purest snow, the fair of earth to shame, 
Surpassing beauteous : breath of mortal life 
Heaved not their bosoms, and no rosy blood 
Tinged their full veins ; yet moved they, ani3 

their steps 
Were harmony. But three of that bright troop. 



474 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



The loveliest and the wildest, stood aloof, 
Enwrapt by what in human form were hke 
Impulse divine, of their fine nature seem'd 
"The eternal instinct. Them no less survey'd 
Casvvallon with the knitted brow of scorn: 
Bitter he spake — " No marvel Saxon souls 
Revel in war's delight, so stern, so fierce 
Their deities." Severe with wrath suppress'd, 
As one ill brooking that irreverent mirth 
ScofT'd ihe feign'd lore, himself ne'er dared to 

doubt, 
Answer'd the son of Woden. "These, proud 

Chief, 
So snowy, soft, and airy, gentle, these 
Are ministers of destiny and death, 
The viewless Riders of the battle field : 
When sounds the rushing of their sable steeds, 
TSown sink the summon'd mighty, and expand 
Valhalla's cloudy portals ; to their thrones 
They the triumphant strangers lead, and pour 
Lavish the eternal beverage of the Gods. 
Mark thou yon bright-hair'd three ? and would 

thy soul 
Grasp the famed deeds of ancient time, or know 
The masterspirits of our present world? 
liO Gudur, she whose deep mysterious soul 
Treasureth the past, and Rosta, who beholds 
All acts and agents of this living earth ; 
She too is there before whose spacious sight 
The years that have not been start up and live, 
Who reads within the soul of man unborn 
The unimagined purpose, of the sage 
Skulda the sagest. Ask and thou shah know." 
— " I am not King of Britain, have not been ; 
Hateful the present and the past, my soul 
Thirsteth for what shall be." — Then Hengist 

spake 
In tone of mix'd authority and prayer, 
" Queen of the Future, Valkyr, hear and speak. 
Speak to the Son of Woden." — All the troop 
Instant the thin bright air absorb'd alone, 
Stood Skulda with her white hair waving wide, 
AsJrembhng on the verge of palpable being, 
Ready to languish too in light away. 

" O'er Britaiti's isle doth Woden to his sons 
Give empire ?" She, but in no human tone, 
E'er froin the soul's emotion harsh or soft. 
One glittering rich unvarying tone rephed, 
"To thine, but not to thee?" — And "I am 

thine," 
Casvvallon shouted loud, and sternly shook 
His visionary sceptre. " Whence the foe 
Fatal to Hengist, and to Hengist's sway ?" 
■" Not from the mountain, Saxon, from the Vale." 
Heard, heeded not the Mountain Chief that strain 
Dire and ill-boding, or if heard, disdain'd 
Adverse what prosperous seem'd a voice from 

Heaven. 

"By what rich rite," he cried, "may Briton 

Chief 
Win favour from high Woden?" — "Not the 

blood 
Of steed or stag; a flower of earth must fade. 
Blest o'er all virgins of the earth, the chaste, 
The beautiful, by Heaven ordain'd to lead 
'The souls of valiant men to the pale hall 



Of the Immortal ; air her path, and Heaven 
Her dwelling, with the fair and brave of earth 
Her sole communion?" — ■" By my future throne 
Proud office for the daughter of a King ! 
A royal damsel, mine own blood, shall join 
Your cloudy mysteries." — A hue Uke joy 
O'erspread her face and form, while slow 
Into the air she brighten'd indistinct 
Even now, and now invisible. 'Sad seem'd 
In gloomy converse with his own dark mind 
Old Hengist, nor despair'd that bold of soul, 
In pride of human wisdom to revoke 
The irrevocable, what himself deem'd fate 
By force or fraud to master or elude. 

» 
O glorious eminence of virtuous fame, 
Glorious from peril ! Warrior of the Vales, 
Fate-signal'd Samor, vaunt not thou the love 
Of a blind people, or weak prince : thy boast 
The sworn unerring hate of Britain's foe. 

So pass'd they forth, one in wild joy elate, 
Already in his high disdainful thought 
Wielding supremacy ; each of fix'd fate 
Nought heeding, but what fed his fierce desires. 

The car shdes light, the deer bound fleet, nor 
sun 
Nor star in all the hazy heavens. Snow, snow, 
Above, around, beneath. Unblinded yet, 
Drive on the kingly charioteers, and shake 
The showery plumage from their locks ; fast 

fades 
The long pale plain, the giant ice hills sink. 
Lakes, rivers, seas are patient of their speed. 
Huge, dim, and dusk the forest pines rush back, 
Now pant the brown deer by that ocean bay. 

How desolate are now thy unplough'd waves, 
Dark Baltic ! wandering Elbe, thy icy breast 
How silent of thy hunters ! Sleep thou calm 
Amid thy wanton vineyards, Gaul ! no more 
The blue-eyed Plunderers, bridging thy broad 

Rhine, 
Waste thy inebriate harvests' clustering pride. 
Sing songs of joy, soft Italy ! o'er thee 
But Alaric and Attila drive on 
Their chariot-wheels of conquest, this their peer 
In majesty of havoc, in renown 
Of devastation, this, the fiercer third 
Of human Furies, scapestthou: therefore sing, 
Soft Italy ; for lo, at Hengist's call, 
Vast Germany dispeoples her wide realm, 
Deserts to silence and the beasts of game 
Her long and soundless forests. Seems the North 
The forge of Nations, in one fleet t' exhaust 
Her iron wealth of warriors ; helmed high 
The Suevian with his* towery knotted locks, 
Frisian and Scandinavian, Cimbrian rich 
In ancient vauntage of his sires, who clomb 
The Alpine snows, and shook free Rome with 

dread. 
And other nameless, numberless, sweep forth 



*Insigne gentis obliquare crinem, nodoque substrin- 
gere — In altitudinem quandam et terrorem, aditurt 
bella, compte, ut hostium oculis, ornantur. — Tacit. 

Oerm. 38. 



SAMOR, 



475 



Their bands ; but three almost in nations came : 
The Jute, the Anghan, and the Saxon, each 
Leaving earth bare for many a lonesome league. 
His wives, his children, and his Gods embarks, 
On the fierce quest of peril and of power. 

Then forth arose each Chieftain to salute 
The pole-sfar of their baleful galaxy. 
Prime Architect of ruin : him who sway'd 
Their hot marauding, desultory strife 
To cool and steady warfare, of their hmbs 
The domineering soul. As each pass'd on 
Shook up the Scald his harsh- strung shell, and 

cast 
The war-tones of each nation to the winds ; 
And Hengist with imperious flattery met 
Each tall and titled Leader: " Art thou here. 
Bold Frisian Hermangard ! a broader isle 
And fairer than thy azure Rhine laves round, 
Spreads for thee her green valleys. How brook'st 

thou, 
Strong Scandinavian Lodbrog, thou the Chief 
Of the renown'd Vikinger, while the waves 
So nobly riot with the wintry storms, 
The tarne and steadfast land ? Now freely leap, 
Arngrim, along thy Suevian forests brown 
The bear and foam-tusk'd wild boar ; let them 

leap, 
A braver game is up on Britain's shore. 
O Cerdic, grey in glory, young in power. 
The Drave ran purple with thy boyish deeds, 
A darker, redder dye, o'er silver Thames 
Shall spread before thy ancient battle-axe. 
Ho, Ofta, the rich-flowing mead halh worn 
Youi- Jutland cups, beneath the British helms 
Capacious goblets smooth and fair await 
OfFa's carousals. Heir of Cimbric fame,* 
Frotho, how these, of late the Roman's slaves, 
Will the race daunt, who set our Thor afront 
The Roman's Capitolian Jove. And thou, 
My gold-hair'd brother, are the British maids. 
Or British warriors, Abisa, the first 
In the fierce yearnings of thy boyish soul ? 
And lo the mighty Anglian ; oh, unfold 
Ocean more wide, more wealthy realms, too brief. 
Too narrow for Argantyr's fame, the round 
Of this the choice, the Sovereign of thine isles." 

Thereat a sound of clattering shields arose. 
As all the rocks around with one harsh rift 
Had rent asunder: " Fair must be the land, 
And brave the conquest, plenteous the renown, 
Where Hengist leads strong Woden's sceptred 



But inly laugh'd Caswallon, as he long'd 
With each or all to match his Briton strength ; 
On the prophetic Valkyr thought, and glanced 
Proud pity on the legends of their praise. 

Advanced Argantyr, his bold grasp apart, 
As peer his peer, led Hengist. " Thou and I, 
Saxon, must have our compact ; dark I know 
Thy paths of strife, while my frank valour loves 



* Ciinbriparva nunc ci vitas sed gloria ingeiis.— Tacit. 
6crm. 



The broad bright sunshine; thou by sleight and 

art 
Pvlinest thy slow conquest ; I with naked sword 
Affront my peril, till its menacing height 
Bow to the dust before me ; for bold war, 
For noonday battling, tender I mine arm, 
But no allegiance own to subtle craft ; 
To peace Argantyr doth revolt when thou 
Array'st stern war in the smooth garb of guile." 
" The weak, Argantyr, and the friendless, need 
Such politic skill ; I take thee at thy word. 
Who skulks a fox when he dare prowl a wolf! 
Power charters force ; where strong Argantyr 

stands 
Is power. — And now aboard, brave Chiefs, 

aboard, 
Or the soft spring o'ertakes our tardy keels, 
And with her slothful breezes smooths the 

skies." 

Wonderous that ocean armament ; in shoals 
Ride boat and bark, innumerous as the waves 
That show white slender streaks of foam between 
Their tawny sides, save here and there towers up 
Some statelier admiral in lordly height 
O'er the frail comm'nalty, whose limber ribs 
Are the hght wicker, cased with sturdy hides 
Their level bottoms smooth.* Oh, that frail Man, 
Loose-woven frame of dissoluble stuff, 
Uncharter'd from the boisterous license rude 
Of pitiless winds and fierce unfetter'd waves, 
To that unshackled hbertine, wild Chance, 
Amenable, unguarantied from burst 
And inroad of invading surge, that he. 
With such thin barrier between life and death, 
Should sit and skim along the ocean waste 
Careless as maiden in a flowery field ; 
Valour or frenzy is it ? They their toil 
Ply nimbly, and with gallant oar chastise 
The insurgent billows, their despotic sails 
Lords o'er the wild democracy of air. 

Less vast, and mann'd with tamer, ~ feebler 
spirits. 
In later days, against our Virgin Queen, 
The Spaniard's mad Arrnada; but the flag 
Of Howard, and the Ahnighty's stormy hand, 
Belied their braggart baptism, so they won 
Brave conquest ! graves in ocean's barren caves, 
Or on the whirlpool-girded Orcades. 

But onward rides that Pagan fleet : young Spring 
Hath scarcely tipt the leafless woods with green ; 
Tyne's jetty tide is blanch'd with German oars. 

Now whither with that dark-brow'd priest set 
forth 
Old Hengist and the Briton Mountain Lord? 
Is it, fell Hengist, that Casvvallon's name 
Paragon thine in British hate, close link'd 
By fellowship in nameless rites accurst. 
Be hence more deeply, execrably thine ? 

*Primum cana salix, madefacto viraine parvam 
Texitur in puppini, ccesoque induta, juvenco, 
Vectoris patiens tuiniduin super einicat amnem; 
Sic Venetus istagnante Pado, fusoque Britannus 
Navigat oceano. Lucan. 



476 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



Or, from weak credence in such impious Gods, 
Urgest thou that fell sacrifice? Oh, where 
The spotless Virgin doom'd (so wild the creed) 
The Valkyr's airy troop to join, and glide 
Immortal through Valhalla's cloudy halls ? 



BOOK IV. 



Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven, 
Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage, 
Moved the meek Star of Eve ; the wandering air 
Breathed odours ; wood, and waveless lake, like 

man, 
Slept, weary of the garnish babbling day. 

Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing 
In slumber droops not ; Lilian, thou alone, 
'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove, 
Idolatrous of yon majestic moon. 
That like a crystal-throned queen in Heaven, 
Seems with her present deity to hush 
To beauteous adoration all the earth ? 
Might^eem the solemn silent mountain tops 
Stand up and worship, the translucent streams 
Down the hill sides glittering cherish the pure 

light 
Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung 
At intervals; the lake, so silver white. 
Glistens, all indistinct the snowy swans 
Bask in the radiance cool ; doth Lilian muse 
To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn ? 

Nursling of solitude, her infant couch 
Never did mother watch, within the grave 
She slept unwaking ; scornful turn'd aloof 
Caswallon, of those pure -instinctive joys 
By fathers felt, when playful infant grace, 
Touch' d with a feminine softness, round the heart 
Winds its light maze of undefined delight. 
Contemptuous ; he with haughty joy beheld 
His boy, fair Malwyn, him in bossy shield 
Rock'd proudly, him upborne to mountain steep 
Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest 
To battle with the eagle's clamorous brood. 

But she the while from human tenderness 
Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up 
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, 
Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone 
By chance- caressing airs, amid the wild 
Beauteously pale, and sadly playful grevv^, 
A lonely child, by not one human heart 
Beloved, and loving none ; nor strange, if learnt 
Her native fond affections to embrace 
Things senseless and inanimate ; she loved 
All flow' rets that with rich embroidery fair 
Enamel the green earth, the odorous thyme, 
Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spared 
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. 
Grey birch and aspen light she loved, that droop 
Fringing the crystal stream ; the sportive breeze 
That wanton' d with her brown and glossy locks. 
The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank. Ere 

dawn 
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve. 



By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge, 
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen. 

Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce 
heard. 
Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid 
Soothing the child with simple tale or song. 
Hence, all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, 
Life's sins and sorrows ; better known the voice 
Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud 
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes 
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint, 
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. 
Nor they of love unconscious, all around 
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet 
Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes 
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, 
Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch' d, 
Courting her fond caress, nor fled her gaze 
The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy. 

One summer noon, the silvery birchen shade 
Pendent above from dripping crag her brow 
Veil'd from the fiery sunbeam, gems of spray 
Gleam'd cool around with watery rainbow-light, 
From a pure streamlet down its rocky bed 
Dashing sweet music ; she on mossy couch 
Sate listening the blithe thrush, whose airy 

notes 
In amorous contention Echo caught 
Responsive. Sudden dropp'd its flagging wing 
The timorous bird of song, and fluttering sought 
Soft refuge in the maiden's snowy breast. 
She o'er the nestling prisoner folding light 
Her careless vest, stood gazing, where, awhile 
Dark in the sun-cloud's white, came fiercely 

down 
A swooping falcon : at her sight it check 'd ; 
Its keen eye bright with joy, th' admiring bird 
Fearfully beauteous floated in the air. 
Its silver wings, and glossy plumage grey, 
Glanced in the simlight. Up the maiden gazed, 
Smiling a pale and terrified delight, 
And seem'd for that loved warbler in her breast 
Beseeching mercy. 'Mid the green-wood sank 
Th' obedient bird; she, joyous at his flight, 
Her bosom half reveal'd, with gentle hand 
Caressing smoothed her captive's ruffled plumes. 
Anon around a frighted thankful look 
Glancing, what seem'd a human shape she saw, 
Or more than human ; stately on his arm 
The falcon sate, and proudly flapp'd his wings. 
She turn'd to fly, yet fled not, turn'd to gaze, 
Yet dared not raise her downcast eye ; she felt 
Her warm cheek, why she knew not, blush, her 

hand 
Unconscious closer drew her bosom's fold. 
With accent mild the Stranger brief delay 
Entreated ; she, albeit his gentle words 
Fell indistinct on her alarmed ear. 
Listening delay'd, and still at fall of eve 
Delay'd, e'en then with dim reverted eye. 
Slow lingering on her winding homeward path. 

No more in pomp of war, or vaulting steed, 
Joyeth the Son of Vortigern, nor. feasts 
With jocund harpings, and rich-jewell'd dames, 
Outshining in their pride the starry heavens. 



S A M R , 



477 



As fair the spring-flower bloom, as graceful 

droops 
The wild ash-spray, as sweet the mountain bee 
Murmurs, melodious breathes the twihght grove, 
Unheard of her, unheeded, who erewhile 
Visited, constant as the morning dew. 
Those playmates and sweet sisters of her soul. 
In one sole image sees the enamour' d maid 
Concentrated all qualities of love. 
All beauty, grace, and majesty. The step 
Of tall stag prancing stately down the glen, 
The keen bright fierceness of the eagle's glance, 
And airy gentleness of timorous roe, 
And, more than all, a voice more soothing soft 
Than wild birds carol, or the murmuring brook. 
With eloquence endued and melting words 
So wondrous; though unheard since eve, the 

sounds 
Come mingling with her midnight sleep, and 

make 
The damask of her slumbering cheek grow warm. 

And she is now beneath the moonlight rock, 
Chiding the rippling waters that efface 
That image on its azure breast distinct, 
Garb, form, and feature, Vortimer ; though mute, 
As prodigal of fondness, his bright face 
Looks up to her with glance of tenderer love. 
Than wild-dove to its mate at earliest spring. 

Oft hath that moonlight wax'd and waned, since 
last 
He parted, all of him that could depart ; 
Save that no distance could remove the words, 
The look, the touch, that lives within her still, 
The promise of return sworn on her lips. 

And hark it comes, his steed along the glen ; 
She o'er the lucid mirror stooping, braids 
Hasty her dark-brown tresses, bashful smiles 
Of virgin vanity flit o'er her cheek. 
Tinging its settled paleness. Now 'tis near, 
But ne'er did Vortimer with iron hoof 
Bruise the green flowery sward that Lilian loves. 
A gentle frown of winning fond reproach 
Arch'd her dark eyelash, as her head she turn'd, 
Ah ! not on Vortimer, Her father stood 
Before her, stern and dark, his trembling child 
Cheer'd nor fond word, nor greeting kiss ; his 

arm ' 

Clasp'd round her, on his steed again he sprung. 

And on through moonlight and through shade 

he spurr'd, 
Gleam'd Uke a meteor's track his flinty road. 
Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn. 
His midnight prey. Anon, the mountain path 
'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paused 
Breathless, and faintly raising her thin form ; 
" Oh, whither bear ye me?" with panting voice, 
Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmoved, "to 

death." 

" Death, father, death is comfortless and cold ! 
Ah me ! when maiden dies, the smihng morn, 
The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray. 
Wake her no more ; the summer wind breathes 
aoft. 



Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed, 
Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold 
She lies ; while all she loved, unheard, unseen, 
Mourn round her.' ' There broke off her faltering 

voice. 
Dimly, with farewell glance, she roved around. 
Never before so beautiful the lake, 
Like a new sky, distinct with stars, the groves, 
Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts ol 

bliss. 
Smiled, ne'er before so lovely, their last smile ; 
The fountains seem'd to wail, the twilight mists, 
On the wet leaves were weeping all for her. 
Had not her own tears blinded her, there too 
She surely had beheld a youthful form, 
Wandering the solitary glen. Bat loud 
The courser neigh' d, down bursting, wood and 

rock 
Fly backward, the wide plain its weary length 
Vainly outspreads ; and now 'tis midnight deep. 
Ends at a narrow glen their fleet career. 
That narrow glen was paled with rude black 

rocks. 
There slowly roU'd a brook its glassy depth ; 
Now in the moon-beams white, now dark in 

gloom. 

She lived, she breathed, she felt to her denied 
That sole sad happiness the wretched know, 
Even from excess of feehng, not to feel. 
Behold her gentle, delicate, and frail. 
Where all around, through rifted rock and wood, 
Grim features glare, huge helmed forms obscure 
People the living gloom, with dreary light 
Glimmering, as of the moon from iron arms 
Coldly reflected, lovely stands she there. 
Like a blest Angel 'mid th' accurst of Hell. 
A voice is heard. — " Lo, mighty Monarch, here 
The stream of sacrifice ; to man alone 
Fits the proud privilege of bloody death 
By shaft of mortal steel; to Hela's realm, 
Unblooded, woundless, must the maid descend; 
So in the bright Valhalla shall she crown 
For Woden and his Peers the cup of bhss." 
Her white arms round her father's rugged neck 
Winding with desperate fondness, she 'gan pour, 
As to some dear, familiar, long-loved heart. 
Most eloquent her inarticulate prayers. 
Is the dew gleaming on his cheek ? or weeps 
That savage and the stern, yet still her sire ? 
But some rude arm of one, whose dreadful face 
She dared not gaze on, seized her. Gloomy 

stood 
Folding his wolf-skin mantle to conceal 
The shuddering of his huge and mailed form, 
Caswallon. Then again the voice came forth, 
" Fast wanes the night, the Gjds brook no delay, 
Monarch of Britain, speed." He, at that name 
Shaking all human from his soul, flung back 
The foldings of his robe, and stood elate, 
As haughty of some glorious deed, nor knew 
Barbarian blind as proud, who feels no more 
The mercies and affections of his kind. 
Casts off the image of God, a man of ill. 
With all his nature's earth, without its heaven. 

A sound is in the silent night abroad, 
A sound of broken waters ; rings of hght 



478 



HENRY HART MILMAN 

dark stream, widening to the 



Float o'er the 

shore.* 
And lo, her re-appearing form, as soft 
As fountain Nymph by weary hunter seen. 
In the lone twilight glen ; the moonlight gleam 
Falls tenderly on her beseeching face. 
Like the halo of expiring Saint, she seems 
Lingering to lie upon the water top, 
As to enjoy once more that light beloved ; 
And tremulously moved her soundless lips 
As syllabling the name of Vortimer ; 
Then deep she sank, and quiet the cold stream. 
Unconscious of its guilt, went eddying on, 
And look'd up lovely to the gazing moon. 

What deepest thoughts, young Vortimer, have 
place 
Within thy secret breast ? thou slowly ridest 
By Eamont's alder brink, thy silver arms 
Through the brown copse with moonshine glit- 
tering dim, 
[s't that late fight by Thanet, when the fire 
From thine and Horsa's steel, frequent and red, 
Burnt the pale sea-spray ? or thy stately charge. 
With show of British war, to curb and check 
The threatening Caledonian ? or what bathes 
Youth's cheek in bitterest and most gall-hke 

tears ; 
Thy father's shame, the curse that, unredeem'd 
By thy young valour, his once kingly name 
Brands with the deep-sear'd characters of hate ? 

Or is't that gentle Maid by Derwent lake, 
Her flower-wreath'd tresses and her pale sweet 

smile ? 
How pleasant, after war and journeying fleet 
To Britain's Northern realm, from Kent's white 

cliffs. 
Once more to see her early gliding foot 
Skimming the morning dews, to hear her voice, 
As artless, as melodious, melt on air, 
Among the wood-birds' matins to surprise 
Thine own dear name upon her bashful lips ! 

What floateth down the stream a deep dead 
white 
Amid the ghttering moonshine, where the stream 
Runs back beneath the thicket ioughs, still white, 
Still slowly drifting, like a dying swan. 
In snowy beauty, on its watery bier ? 
Oh, were but Lilian here! perchance its neck 
May struggle up, to the still waves to chaunt 
Its own soft requiem, the most gentle breath, 
Most fancifully, delicately sweet, 
That ever soothes the midnight's dewy calm. 



* Homo autem quem sors immolandum obtulerat, in 
fontem qui ad locum sacrificiorum scaturiebat vivus 
linmergebatur: qui si facile iefflaret animam, faustum 
renunciabant sacerdotes votum : moxque inde ereptum 
in vicinum nemus, quod sacrum creijebant, suspen- 
dentes, Inter Deos translatum affiamabant. Quo factum 
erat,ut beatuni se credeiet, qui eo immolatione e vivis 
escederet. Accidit noununquam -leges ' ipsos simili 
sorte delectos victimaii. Quod q'tiia fausti simum 
regno libamen ffistimabatur, totius populi mtiltitudo 
cum surama congratulatione tam insignes victimas 
prosequebantur. EiiimverO sic defunctos non omnino 
mori, sed tam illos quam se ipsos immortales esse.— 
Olavs Magnus, Book 3, cap. t). 



Near, and more near, it takes the human shape : 
Some luckless maiden ; haply her loved youth 
Awaits her at the well-known place, upbraids 
Her broken faith, as fond as Vortimer, 
As full of love. 'Tis closer now ; he leaps 
From his high steed, he draws it to the shore. 
Scarce time for fancy or for fear, the moon 
Quench'd her broad light behind a rushing cloud. 
And utter darkness settled round. He sate 
In sohtude, with that cold lifeless thing; 
He dared not leave it, for a hideous thought 
Was in his brain.—" Why is it hke to thee, 
My Lilian ! be it any one but thou — 
Hopelessly cold, irrevocably cold : 
It cannot be, and yet 'twas like : her height, 
Her slender waist like Lihan's, and her hair 
As dainty soft, and trick'd with flowers; 'tis she, 
And I will kiss her, pardon if I err. 
If stranger lips round, smooth hke thine ; but oh ! 
So coldly passive ; when we parted, thine 
Thwarted me with a struggling bashfulness, 
And, won at length, with meek surrender swell'd. 
Wild and delirious fancy ! many a maid 
Hath full round lips, to trick the hair with flowers 
'Tis common vanity. If dead, even dead. 
So chilly senseless Lihan could not be 
To Vortimer's embrace. Oh, but for light. 
Though dim and scanty as a glow-worm's fire, 
To make me surely, hopelessly undone ! 
Aught but this racking ignorance. Dawn forth, 
Thou tortoise- footed sluggard. Morn! one beam, 
Thou pitiless cold Moon!"— Morn dawn'd not 

yet. 

And pale and thick remain'd the moonless sky. 

Darkness around, the dead within his arms. 

He sate, even like a poison'd man, that waits, 

Yet haunted by a miserable hope. 

The palpable cold sickness in his veins. 

And years to live or die, scarce cares he which, 

So one were certain. But when slow the dawn 

Unveil'd its filmy light, he turn'd away 

From that which might be Lilian's face, and 

pray'd 
Even for the hateful, dun, uncertain gloom, 
And now by habit the slow-creeping grief, 
Winding like ivy round and round his heart, 
Were rapture, and not lightly to be lost. 
It seem'd unconsciously his hand held up, 
Unconsciously declined his heavy eye. 
Where slowly brighten'd on that lifeless face 
The intrusive beauty ; one tress lay across, 
O'erspreading yet a thin and shadowy doubt ; 
Move it he dare not, but the officious wind 
At length dispersed it. As the thought, the fear 
Were new, were sudden, hke the lightning flash 
That sears the infant in its mother's arms. 
Smote on him the dire certainty. He olasp'd 
Her damp dead cheek to his — "Thus, meet we 

thus, 
Lilian, my Lilian, silent, strange, and cold? 
I do not bid thee fondly gaze, nor ask 
Long garrulous welcoming, — ^but speak, but 

move ! 
Lilian ; ne'er thought I, I should live to loathe 
Thy gentle presence. — Most ungrateful girl, 
And I for thee forsook my warrior trust, 
Was truant to my country's cause for thee. 
By the green Tees ray murmuring camp upbraidfl 



SAMOR, 



419 



My soft unwarlike absence — ay, upbraid ! 

Henceforth finds Fortune no where in this soul 

To fasten misery on ; I laugh at Fate, 

For I am past its wavering malice now. 

Thinks she with hollow gauds of fame, and clang 

Of cymbal praise, to lure me forth, a bland 

And courteous parasite in her fond train ? 

No ; hang thou there, my helm, my broad-barr'd 

shield 
Rust on yon bank ; my sword, one duty more. 
To shape the smooth turf for my Lilian's grave; 
Thy bridal bed, sweet Maid, it- should have been. 
Where thou and Vortimer had met. Thy grave 
Shall be my field of fame, my wreath of pride 
The flowers the courteous spring shall lavish 

there ; 
And I'll have glory in my depth of woe — 
A wild and strange delight in my despair : 
Not yet, the cold earth must not part us yet, 
One glimmer more from thine eye's dark-fringed 

blue. 
One throb, one tremor, though it be the last 
In thy soft limbs — dead, sightless, icy dead !"• — 

O'er his lost Love, thus that sad Prince, un- 

dream'd 
The hell-born secret of her fate, arraign'd 
Blind Chance for keen-eyed Man's earth-sullying 

sins. 

But southward far the savage fleet bore on. 
On Flamborough-head the morning sun look'd 

dusk 
Through their dim sails; where Scarborough's 

naked foot 
Sptirns back, and saith, " no further," to the 

waves, 
From cleft and cave the sullen sea-birds sprang. 
Wheeling in air with dizzy flight, and shriek' d 
Their dreary fears abroad. The Shepherd, wont 
O'er level Lindesay view the watery plain, 
Blue trembling to the soft horizon's line. 
Sees, like a baleful portent from the heavens, 
That sable train of gloom warp slowly past. 
Th' Icenian coast (that sceptred woman's realm, 
Bonduca, who from her fair body slaked 
The stain of Roman lust in Roman blood,) 
Looks haggard, with distracted faces wan. 
Hoar age, fair youth, the woman and the child. 
From beech or steep cliff, gazing now to Heaven, 
Now on that ocean army's watery march. 

Oh Nelson ! if the unborn soul distinct 
Amid the loose infinity of space. 
Be visited by apparitions dim 
Of this Earth's fleeting Present, and inhale 
Faint foretaste of its mortal passions, thou. 
When, with usurping prow, that foreign fleet 
■Daunted thy Britain, thou didst surely yearn 
To unordain'd maturity to force 
Thy unripe being, to foreseize from Fate 
Thy slow existence. Oh, the days must dawn, 
When Saxon and when Briton, melted off 
All feud, all hate, all discord, of their strength 
And valour blent th' abstract and essence rich. 
One sword, one name, one glory, and one God, 
From their bright armoury of Captains, thee 
Their chosen thunderbolt shall usher forth. 



From the leagued Nations' frantic grasp to wrest 
Britain's allotted sceptre of the sea. 

A brighter and more British battlement. 
Than tender forms of woman, the pale dread 
Of infants and decrepit eld, from Thames 
To Thanet crown the palebrow'd cliffs of Kent. 
As when from Aulis that immortal fleet 
Swept the jEgean, all the hollow beach, 
And every Phrygian promontory glow'd 
With brazen battle, here the Morning's Son, 
Swarth Memnon, here the invulnerable strength- 
Of Cycnus, here the beardless Troilus, 
Unwounded by soft Cresseide's arrowy eyes; 
Here Hector, seeking through the watery route 
The tall Thessalian prow, with fatal thirst 
Furious even then, the silver-footed Queen 
To orphan of her heaven-soul'd boy. So broad. 
So brave in splendour tower'd the rampart bold 
Of British Warriors on that paUid shore. 

On Thanet are the Sea-King Brethren met. 
Their greeting in that fiercely sportive strain 
That, elevate with imminent success, 
Scoffs at past ill. — " On Thanet's marge weB 

met, 
Erie Horsa ; now meseems our spacious realm 
Is somewhat waste and shrunken, since we last 
View'd its fair confines : for such noble guests 
And numerous as attend our royal march, 
Our kingdom's harbours show too close, oui 

land 
Narrow and brief for such free spirits' range. 
Ill husbandry ! our fertile province wide 
To barter for this spare and meagre isle. 
Horsa, for anchorage and Isreathing space 
Our weary mariners must e'en go sue 
Their gentle Briton neighbours ; haply they,. 
Knowing otir native courtesy, may cede 
From their abundance some fair leagues of 

earth." 

" Ingrate and blind (cried Horsa,) they for- 
swear 
Our mild dominion ; to their King's behest 
Rebellious, they proclaim the British earth 
The undivided, indivisible right 
Of their old British sires, nor may't descend 
Sever'd and mutilate to their British sons. 
They shook not off the Roman's gentle sway,. 
To slave it to Barbarians. Specious terms, 
And with such cogent arguments enforced, 
We were fain shroud us in this narrow isle 
From such hot disputants ; a desperate spirit 
Wag that old Cassar, who first planted here 
The tree of conquest." — " Holds the King his 

faith?" 
" Oh, thy fair daughter hath a soft-link'd chain 
For the old royal Lion ; he obeys. 
Like a slim greyhound in a silken leash, 
Her eye-won empire. But there walks abroad 
A youngling of the brood ; no blood but mine 
Might flesh the ravin of his dainty jaws. 
This Vortimer, this bright-eyed, beardless boy.. 
Ay, front to front I met him, but their ba.nds 
Rent us asunder, and my crest-lopp'd helm. 
My scatter'd blood, pass'd unavenged. Now 
earth 



480 



HENRY HART MIL MAN 



Swallow me in my wrath, heaven's bolt sear up 
My constant heart, if I forget thee. Boy, 
Nor shear the gay sprouts of thy budding fame !" 
" A child their mightiest !"— " Scornful Hengist, 

no ; 
A manlier spirit rideth the fierce storm, 
One in whom bravery and counsel vie 
For excellence : wild battle wears the shape 
His will ordains ; and if the rebel swerve, 
He forceth it with his strong sword to obey 
His high behest, and take the fate he gives." 
"His name' — his name!" — "The Chieftain of 

the Vales, 
So sounds his title." — Then a bitter groan, 
'Twere hard to tell from what bad passion, hale 
Or dread, or hideous hope, from Hengist's breast 
Burst forth ; with his mail'd hand he clasp' d his 

head. 
As though to mould the discord of his thoughts 
To one strong mass: then, as the birth were 

ripe, 
A light and laughing carelessness relax' d 
Those knitted furrows, seem'd his eager soul 
Clasp'd the dim future with a wanton joy. 

But on the mainland, in sad council, meet | 

The Baronage of Britain, timorous hearts j 

In hollow unsubstantial valour trick'd, 
While those who dare show fear, fear undis- 
guised. 
Their first fierce rush of courage pass'd, like 

flame 
The mountain heath devouring, with fleet blaze, 
But transitory; they of generous thoughts, 
Of appetites whose sole rich draught is fame. 
Wanting the steadfast fuel, the strong wind 
Wanting of love devotional, heart-deep 
To their own native land, that passion proud 
That is all passions, that hath breath to fan 
To a broad light beyond the noon- day Sun 
The waning embers of faint zeal ; they hence 
Powerful, but now with gallant charge to sweep 
From Kent's fair Valleys Horsa's Saxon train, 
Downcast in mien and mind, with prospect sad 
Now count that countless navy's gathering sails. 

Not now the rapture and the restlessness, 
The riding and the racing, burst and shock. 
And sudden triumph, or as sudden death ; 
Now long, long wasting of the limbs and life, 
The circumspect cold strife, drear march, damp 

watch, 
Forepining day, and vigilant sleepless night, 
Eternal and interminable war. 
Before them spreads its comfortless wide tract. 
Gone all soft joys, all courtly luxuries gone :* 
The languor of the bath, the harp, the song 
By twilight in the lady's sleepless porch, 
The loitering in the sunny colonnade, 
The circus, and the theatre, the feast 
Usurping the mild midnight's solemn hours ; 
From holier hearts, the chapel and the prayer, 
The matins, and melodious vesper hymn. 
The bridal with its gay and jocund rout. 
The baptism with its revel, gone — all gone. 
The burial on cold battle-field, unhymn'd, 
Unmourn'd, untomb'd; nor taper, tear, nor rite : 
Gentle commercing between God and man 



Broke off, save hasty prayer ere battle morn, 
Cold orison upon the midnight watch. 

Sole pillar of the quaking temple, firm, 
Inflexible, on the foundation deep 
Of his broad spirit, Samor bears the weight 
Of imminent danger, and his magic voice 
With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with 

scorn, 
Scatters the languid mist, that wreathes theit 

souls, 
And from their blanch'd cheeks drives the white 

dismay. 

What ho ! a trumpet from the Thanet shore. 
Truce for the Saxon's embassage ; his hand 
Outholding the white wand of peace, comes on 
Old Cerdic, and before the assemblage proud 
Speaks frank and bold that grey Plenipotent. 

" Britons, most strange 'twill sound, while our 

vast fleet 
Affronts your pale cliflfs with fierce show of war, 
Yet would we peace with Britain. Deem not 

this, 
In the blown arrogance of brief success, 
The hard-wrung cowering of faint fear ; look 

round 
Your own brief camp, then gaze abroad, our 

sails 
Outnumber your thin helms, and that pale fear 
Is not familiar with our German souls. 
This know ye further, what we Saxons dare, 
That dare we nobly, openly. Far south 
A rich and wanton land its champaign green 
Spreads to the sun, there all the basking hills 
Glow with the red wine, there the fresh air floats 
So fragrant, that 'tis pleasure but to breathe. 
Aye one blue summer in the cloudless skies ; 
And our old Bards have legends, how of yore 
From that soft land bright eagles, fledged with 

gold, 
Danube or Rhine o'erflew, their Caesars fired 
Our holy groves with insolent flames, and girt 
Our fierce free foresters with slavish chains. 
That scarce bold Herman rent their massive 

links. 
Not to despoil a mild and gentle isle. 
For full fierce vengeance on imperial Rome 
Pours forth embattled Germany. Then hear, 
Brave islanders ! our Saxon terms of peace : 
For this fair province, ours by royal boon 
Of your King Vortigern give plenteous gold ; 
And with it take the gift, that deepest wrings 
Our German souls to part with, our revenge. 
With most unwonted patience will we bear 
Erie Horsa's camp with fierce assault o'erborne. 
And British wolves full-gorged with Saxon gore. 
Then not as foes, but friends, we disembark 
Our sea-worn crews, ourselves, the Chiefs of 

war, 
In solemn festival to your high Lords, 
Pledge on the compact our unwavering faith. 
But if ye still with lavish thirst pursue 
War's crimson goblets, freely let them flow. 
I If the fierce pastime of the fire and sword 
Be jocund to ye, ho, let slip the game. 
I Your city walls are not so airy high, 



SAMOR, 



481 



But our fleet flames may climb their dizuy 

towers, 
And revel on their pinnacles of pride ; 
Your breastplates not so adamantine proof 
But our keen falchions to your hearts may find 
A direful passage. And not we alone, 
Caswallon, at our call, o'er the wide North 
Wakes the hoarse music of his rushing cars. 
Then choose your bride, oh Britons, lo, each 

courts 
Your arms with rival beauties, Peace and War." 

Thus half in courtesy, defiant half. 
To wait their answer he withdrew. Ere died 
His voice, ere from a single lip assent 
Had parted, Samor rose, and cried aloud — 

"Britons! oh Britons! hinds fear fawning 

wolves, 
The peasant flies the snake that smoothly coils 
Round his numb foot its gay enamell'd rings ; 
[ dread a peaceful Saxon. 'Tis too rare. 
Prodigious, and unnatural, like a star 
Seen in the noon-day. Was't for this, for this 
Round Vortigern's tame soul that proud-ey'd 

Queen 
Wound her voluptuous trammels? did the meek. 
The hermit Constans, bleed for this ? Oh, Peace 
Is like the rain from heaven, the clouds must burst 
Ere earth smile lovely with its lucid dews. 
Peace must be won by war, swords, swords 

alone 
Work the strong treaty. Shall our slaves, that 

sold 
Their blood, their lives unto us ibr base hire. 
On our fair provinces set now their price ? 
Nor feast, nor metal give we, but cold steel ! 
Give gold ! as wisely might the miser lead 
The robber to his treasury, and then cry, 
" Go hence, and plunder;" 'twere to tempt, to 

bribe 
The undream'd perjury, and spread a lure. 
To bring the parted spoiler swiftly back. 
Outnumber us ! and are we sunk so low 
To count our valour by our helmet crests ? — 
Oh, every soul that loves his native land, 
It is a legion ; where the fire shall sear 
Th^ hydra heads of liberty ? Our earth 
Shall burst to bearing of as boon a crop 
Of sworded soldiers, as of bladed grass. 
And all our hills branch out in groves of steel. 
So thought our fathers, so they bravely strove 
For the bleak freedom of their steamy moors. 
Their black oak's fruitage coarse, and rites un- 
couth 
Of Druid, by the beal-fire's lurid flame. 
But we, less drossy beings, filter' d off 
Our natures rude and gross, create anew 
Souls of fine wants and delicate desires. 
Rich in the fair civilities of life, 
Ei-^!uca with sensitiveness keen and clear 
Of earth's best pleasures, shall we tamely yield 
Our beauteous Britain, our own pleasant isle. 
To dreary-soul'd Barbarians? "Tis not now 
Merely lo 'scape the heaven-branded name of 

slaves. 
For license to breathe where we choose, and 

wield 

61 



At our own wayward will unfetter'd limbs. 
Oh, if we fail, free Christians must sink down 
To Heathen slaves, our gilded palace roofs 
Shout the loose riot of new Lords, our wives 
Be like base plunder, vilely bought and sold ; 
Worse shame ! worse sin ! the murky Heathen 

groves 
O'er our fallen Churches their pale gloom ad- 
vance ; 
Our holy air go hot and reeking up 
With impious incense to blood beveraged Gods ! 
The deep damnation of a Pagan creed 
Rot in our children's souls! Then be our peace 
Not hasty, as of timorous souls that snatch 
At every feeble reed, but stoop we to it 
As with a conqueror's pride, with steel-gloved 

hand 
Seal our stern treaty. So if they depart, 
And with their spread sails hunt their mad em- 
prize ; 
But while one prow dash menace on our shore, 
Our earth be patient of one armed hoof, 
Tame treaty, temporizing truce, avaunt ! 
The foreign banner that usurps our winds. 
Be it a foe, strange steel that doth divert 
One ray of sunlight from our shores, be that 
The scope and centre of all British swords. 
So build we up our peace on the strong rock 
Of brave defiance, cement it with scorn. 
Set bright-arm'd Valour in its jealous porch. 
Bold warden; from our own intrinsic strength. 
Not from the mercy of our foes, be free."-^- 

Oh the soul's fire, of that swift element 
Th' intensest, broadest spreads- and nimblest 

mounts. 
With flaky fierce contagion ; it hath caught 
In that Baronial conclave, il hath blazed. 
But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien, 
Into himself half shrinking ; from his lips 
The dewy words dropf, delicate and round. 
And crept into the chambers of the soul. 
Like the bee's liquid honey : — " And thou too, 
Enamour'd of this gaudy murderer, War ! 
Samor, in hunger's meagre hour who scorns 
A fair-skinn'd fruit, because its inward pulp 
May be or black or hollow ? this bland Peace 
May be a rich-robed evil ; war, stern war. 
Wears manifest its hideousness, and bares 
Deformities the Sun shrinks to behold. 
Because 'tis in the wanton roll of chance 
That he may die, who desperately leaps 
Into the pit, with mad untimely arms 
To clasp annihilation ? Were no path 
But through the grim and haunted wilds of strife, 
To the mild shrine of peace, maids would not 

wear 
Their bridal chaplets with more joy, than I 
Th' oppressive morion : then th' old vaunt were 

wise, 
To live in freedom, or for freedom die. 
Then would I too dissemble, with vain boast, 
Our island's weakness ; wear an iron front. 
Though all within were silken, soft, and smooth. 
For what are we, slight sunshine birds, thin 

plumed 
For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs ! 
To grapple with these vultures, whose broad vans, 



462 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Strung with their icy tempests, but with wind 
Of their forth rushing down would swoop us? 

Then, 
Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power, 
It were most proud for thee alone to break 
The hot assault, with single arm t' arrest 
The driving ruin — ruin, ah ! too sure. 
Oh, 'twere most proud; to us sad comfort; 

sunk. 
Amerced of all our fair, smooth shding hours, 
Our rich abodes the wandering war-flame's feast. 
Samor, our fathers fear'd not death ; cast off 
Most careless their coarse lives ; wkh nought to 

lose. 
They fear'd no loss ; our breathing is too rich. 
Too precious this our sensitive warm mould, 
Its joyances, affections, hopes, desires, 
For such light venture. Oh, then, be we not 
Most wretched from the fear of wretchedness ! 
If war must be, in God's name let war be : 
But, oh, with clinging hand, with lingering love, 
Clasp we our mistress. Peace. Gold ! what is 

gold? 
My fair and wealthy palace set to sale, 
Cast me a beggar to the elements' scorn ; 
But leave me peace, oh, leave my country peace. 
And I will call it mercy, bounty, love !" — 

So spake he, with vain show of pubhc zeal 
Blazoning his weak intent; and so prevail'd 
His loose and languid eloquence. Each rent 
The golden frontlet from his helm, cast down 
His breastplate's golden scales, in contest free 
Prodigal rivals at rich price to buy 
That baleful merchandise, their country's shame. 

Oh, where the royal Brethren now? the pride 
Serene of Emrys? where thy Dragon crest. 
Prince Uther? for thy voice, young Vortimer? 
Seal, Samor, thy prophetic lips ; in vain 
The trumpet of thy warning shouts abroad. 
Will the winds hear thee ? will the rocks obey ? 
Or hearts than winds more light, than rocks more 
cold? 

Grey Cerdic hath their faint award ; they part 
Jocund, and light of hope ; but Samor grasp'd 
The hand of Elidure — " My childhood's friend, 
I sue thee by all joys we two have shared ; 
Our interchange of souls, communion free 
Of every thought and motion of our hearts. 
Our infant pastimes, and our graver joys. 
Go not thou to this feast." — " Doth Samor go?" 
"Britain must have no danger, gentle friend. 
That Samor shares not; thou art noted well 
To hate the riotous and brawling feast. 
With thy fond bride, thy Evelene, await 
Silent the knowledge whether thou or I 
Have err'd in this day's council." — " No, best 

friend, 
Samor must have no danger Elidure 
Shares not. Oh, why this cold and gloomy 

dread ? 
In the- deep centre of our isle be held 
This dreaded banquet. Samor, ne'er thought I, 
While my mild blood ran constant, thine would 



'Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush 
Of clamorous joy unmark'd in drearier days, 
Remember'd signs on earth, and signs in heaven, 
With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd 
That hasty treaty ; maniacs kindled up 
With horrible intelligence the pits 
Of their deep hollow eyes, and meaning strange 
Gave order to their wandering utterance : stream'd 
Amid the dusky woods broad sheeted flames ; 
The blue fires on the fen at noon-day danced 
Their wavering morrice, and the bold-eyed 

wolves 
Howl'd on the sun. Life ominous and uncouth 
Seized upon ancient and forgotten things ; 
The Cromlechs rock'd, the Druid circles wept 
Cold ruddy dews ; as of that neighbouring feast 
Conscious, the tall Stone Henge did shrilly shriek 
As with a whirlwind, though no cloud was 

moved 
In the still skies. A wailing, as of harps, 
Sad with no mortal sorrow, sail'd abroad 
Trough the black oaks of Mona. Old deep 

graves 
Were restless, and arm'd bones of buried men 
Lay clattering in their stony cells. 'Twas faith, 
White women upon sable steeds were seen 
In fleet career, 'neath the rank air ; the earth 
Gave up no echo to their noiseless feet. 
And on them look'd the moon with leprous light 
Prodigious ; haply hke those tender shapes 
In the ice desert by Caswallon seen. 
From Mona to the snowy Dover cliffs. 
From Skiddaw to St. Michael's vision'd mount. 
Unknown from heaven or earth, or nether nt, 
Unknown or from the living or the dead. 
From being of this world, or nature higher, 
Pass'd one long shriek, whereat old Merlin 

leap'd 
From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk 
And dreary descant mutter'd all abroad 
What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear. 

'Tis said, rude portents in the church of God, 
With insolent noises broke the holy calm. 
The grey owl hooted at the noontide chaunt, 
The young owl clamour'd at the matin song, 
The pies and ravens, from the steeple top, 
To the priest's Benedicite moan'd back 
A sullen hoarse Amen, and obscene bats 
Around the altar candlesticks did flap 
Their leathern wings. Yea, from his stricKen 

hand 
The white-stoled Bishop to the earth let fall 
The consecrated chahce ; the holy wine 
(Ineffable !) flowed on the pavement stone. 



BOOK V. 



And curdle with the pallid frost of fear." 



Swan of the Ocean, on thy throne of waves 
Exultant dost thou sit, thy mantling plumes 
Ruffled with joy, thy pride of neck elate, 
To hail fair peace, like Angel visitant. 
Descending amid joy of earth and heaven. 
To bless thy fair abode. The laughing skies 
Look bright, oh, Britain ! on thy hour of bliss. 
In sunshine fair the blithe and bounteous May 



' 



SAMOR, 



483 



O'er hill and vale goes dancing ; blooming 

flowers 
Under her wanton feet their dewy bells 
Shake joyous; clouds of fragrance round her 

float. 
City to city cries, and town to town 
Wafting glad tidings: wide their flower-hung 

gates 
Throw back the churches, resonant with pomp 
Of priests and people, to the Lord their prayers 
Pouring, the richest incense of pure hearts. 
With garland and with song the maids go forth, 
And mingle with the iron ranks of war 
Their forms of melting softness ; gentle gales 
Blow music o'er the festal land, from harp 
And merry rebeck, till the floating air 
Seem harmony ; still all fierce sounds of war ; 
No breath within the clarion's brazen throat; 
Soft slumber in the war-steed's drooping mane. 

Not in the palace proud, or gorgeous hall. 
The banqueting of Peace ; on Ambri plain 
Glitter the white pavihons to the sun. 
Their snowy pomp unfolding ; there the land 
Pours its rejoicing multitudes to gaze, 
Briton and Saxon, in majestic league, 
Minghng their streaming banners' blazon' d waves. 
Blithe as a virgin bridal, rich and proud 
As gorgeous triumph for fair kingdom won, 
Flows forth the festal train ; with arms elate 
The mothers bear their infants to behold 
That Hengist, whose harsh name erewhile their 

cheeks 
Blanch'd to cold paleness ; they their little hands 
Clap, smihng, half delighted, half in dread 
Upon that hated head, from virgin hands, 
Rain showers of bloom ; beneath those hated feet 
Is strewn a flowery pavement ; harp and voice 
Hymn blessings on the Saxon, late denounced 
Th' implacable, inexorable foe. 

Lordly they pass'd and lofty ; other land 
Save Britain, of such mighty despots proud. 
Had made a boast of slavery ; giant men 
In soul as body. Not the Goth more dread. 
Tall Alaric, who through imperial Rome 
March'd conqueror, nor that later Orient chief, 
Turban'd Mohammed, who o'er fall'n Byzance 
His moony ensign planted: they, iinarm'd. 
Yet terrible, went haughty on, of power 
A world to vanquish, not one narrow isle. 

The hollow vault of heaven is rent with shouts, 
Wild din and hurry of tumultuous joy 
Waves the wide throng, for lo, in perfect strength. 
Consummate height of manhood, but the glow. 
The purple grace of youth, th' ambrosial hue 
Of life's fresh morning, on his glossy hair, 
His smooth and flushing features, Samor comes. 
His name is on the hsping infant's lips. 
Floats on the maiden's song ; him warrior men 
Hail with proud crest elate ; him present, deem 
Peace timorous mercy on the invading foe. 
Around the Kings of Britain, some her shame, 
Downy and silken with luxurious ease, 
Others more hardy, in whose valiant looks 
Were freedom and command : of princely stem 
Alone were absent the forsaken King 



And his sad Son, and those twin royal youths, 
Emrys and Uther; nor the Mountain Lord, 
With that young eaglet of his race, deign share 
The gaudy luxuries of peace ; save these, 
All Britain's vahance, princedom, and renown 
March'd jubilant, with symphony and song. 

Noon ; from his high empyreal throne the Sun 
Floods with broad hght the living plain ; more rich 
Ne'er blazed his summer couch, when sea snd 

sky, 
In royal pomp of cloudy purple and gold, 
Curtain his western chambers, breathing men 
Gorgeous and numberless as those bright waves 
Flash, in their motion, the quick hght; aloof 
The banqueters, like Gods at nectar feast. 
Sit sumptuous and pavilion'd ; all glad tones 
From trembling string, or ravishing breath or 

voice. 
In clouds of harmony melt up to Heaven ; 
O'erwhelming splendour all of sight and sound. 
One rich oppression of eye, ear, and mind. 

Midnight, in darkness heavy, thick, and chill ; 
In silence rigid, deep and breathless, stands 
On the wide plain one lonely man. Wan Hght, 
From dim decaying firebrand in his grasp. 
Feebly, with gleam inconstant, shows his mien 
Hopeless, too haughty to despair: His eye. 
As jealous of dark foe, goes wandering round : 
Yet seems he one more fear'd than fearing ; rent 
His robes' rich splendour ; and his ponderous arm, 
With its wild weapon wearily declined. 
Bears token of rude strife — though rude, though 

fierce. 
By thy brow's pride, thou sad and stately Man! 
No faint inglorious craven hast thou shrunk, 
In dread of death, or avarice base of blood. 

At that dead hour, in Caesar's city* gates 
The Briton wives and mothers sate ; at eve 
They from the plain had homeward turn'd, to rock 
Their infants' rosy sleep, or trim the couch 
For him beloved and loving; some, from joy 
Sleepless, sate watching the grey shadows fall, 
In luxury of impatience; slumbering some, 
From weariness of pleasure, in light dreams 
Lived o'er again the morning's jocund hours. 

That hour, one horn with long and solemn blast 
Went waihng up the heavens ; less shrill, less 

drear, 
Blew through the fatal Roncesvalles pass, 
In after times, Roland's deep bugle, heard 
Dolorous, so poets feign, on Paris' wall. 
The air seem'd shivering where the knell pass'd 

on, 
As with a cold wind shudder' d the thick trees. 

But those fond women hail that brazen sound, 
Joy's harbinger, sweet signal of return : 
As the fond maid her lover's moonlight lute. 
They drink in its dire harshness, busy round 
Gazing, if aught neglected, careless aught 
Belie the welcome, or to wakening child 
Smile the glad tidings, or along the walls 



* Salisbury. — Sarisburga, qu. Ctesaris burga? 



-484 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



People the dim air with the forms they love. 
Oh, fond of fancy ! credulous of hope ! 
Ye hear but pleasure in that horn ; but see, 
In the dim tumult of yon moving lights, 
Swift homeward hurrying. Now the slow delay 
Is but a lengthen'd rapture : steps are heard, 
And figures indistinct are in the gloom 
Advancing ; yet no festal pomp proclaim' d 
By music's merry breath, but mute and slow, 
As from dark, funeral — haply wearied all 
With the long revel day. But ye 'gin trace 
Some well-known gesture, dear familiar step. 
Each boastful of her lover's speedier pace. 
Saxon the first, how wearily slow they pass ! 
Still are they Saxon, Saxon still, the last 
Saxon; in wonder they, nor yet in fear, 
Question the dark air with their searching eyes, 
Incredulous arraign the deepening gloom. 
That with an envious melancholy shroud 
Palls the long-lock'd for, late-returning. Them, 
Ah, deeper darkness covers; to their homes 
Never more to return 1 Lo, all at once 
The bloody knives, borne boastful, their red light 
Flash murtherous ; known is all ere aught is 

fear'd. 
And yet are there unfaded on their brows 
The garlands that ye fondly wove, the air 
Not silent of your blessings. From these walls. 
At morn, three hundred breathing vaUant men 
Went proudly forth — in solitary life 
Moves o'er the plain that one majestic shape. 
Like Spirit of Vengeance o'er some ghastly land 
That scoff'd erewhile, in high portentous guilt. 
The slumbering of God's wrath now blasted lies. 
Infecting with the ashes of its wreck 
The late chastising heavens. So lone, so dark, 
But pale with human sorrows at his heart. 
The King of that Bright City in the Vales, 
Walks the waste gloom ; around him the cold 

winds 
Speak voices from the dead, and oft he turns. 
Brandishing defiance on the air, and smites 
Some seeming Saxon with his smouldering brand. 

Now rests he in that old mysterious ring, 
The dateless and the numberless Stonehenge, 
That is, and hath been, whence or how, none 

knows. 
But even the Master Druid with slow dread 
Its dangerous precincts trod, though noontide 

bright 
Revell'd in the rich heavens, and holiest harps 
Purified the calm air : rose hke the wreck 
Of some old world the shadowy temple huge, 
Shapeless magnificence ! here souls profane 
Deem'd rites so potent held as made the oaks 
Stand still and motionless 'mid the wild storm. 
And with a light, nor of the stars nor moon. 
Sheeted the midnight heavens: deem'd some, 

more sage, 
Th' Invisible his cloudy presence here 
Embodied, and with wisdom heavenly and high 
Full feasted the tranced soul ; all the dire place 
Fled, fearing more, unknowing what they fear'd. 

Amid those stony giants that uptower 
In massy darkness, or in the wind's rush 
Seeni swaying on their dizzy balance, stands. 



If virtue of aught earthly may feel awe. 
Awe-struck the Christian ; now his calmer soul 
Had time for grief, for memory, o'er him flows 
Deep-luUing quiet ; here the hght and gay 
Had felt a motion on their lips like prayer ; 
Nor marvel then that holy thoughts oppress'd 
With a full ecstasy the Christian soul. 

"Merciful! by whose will mine arm hath 

paved 
With the strewn corpses of my murtherous foes 
A dismal passage, while around me Death 
Mow'd Britain with his secret scythe ! oh God, 
I thank thee, if I die, a warrior's death 
May be my brave distinction : if this life 
Be worthy thy upholding, though all lost, 
The friendships and the prides, that made its 

course 
Blissful and bright, I thank thee for my life : 
Thank thee, that yet on British earth shall 

breathe 
A Briton, resolute on that last crag. 
That knows not the rude Saxon's tread, to rise 
Erect in stately freedom, and o'er-brood 
The dim and desert beacon of revenge. 
Or deign' st thou this low frame of dust to choose 
Thy minister of wrath, I not with prayer 
Vain and presumptuous, summon from the clouds 
Thy thunders, nor invoke prodigious Death 
To smite my foes. Hopes perishable man. 
At his wild bidding, thou the laws wilt burst, 
Wherewith thou fetterest thy Omnipotence? 
Harden to stern endurance these frail limbs. 
With adamantine patience sheathe my soul. 
That nor pale shrinking of the coward flesh. 
Nor inward palsying swerve from its brave scope 
Th' aspiring spirit ; grant thou this sole prayer, 
And I thus lone, thus desolate, proclaim. 
Single, yet dauntless, to yon Saxon host 
Stubborn defiance, haughty to bear up 
The wreck of Britain with unstooping neck." 

Now over all the orient sky, the Morn 
Spread rosy in her youth of hght, as fair. 
As bright her rising on this plain of death, 
As yesterday, when festal multitudes 
Greeted her dawn : so vain the boast of man. 
That earth, and air, and sky,'their mimic hues 
Borrow from his fantastic woes and joys. 

And o'er the plain began his lonely way 
The Warrior, on his brow the unheeded wind 
Fann'd freshness, and the wandering lark un- 
heard, 
Quiver'd her bhthe song, like an airy voice. 
Bathing in light. Anon a dale beneath 
Open'd, and slow withdrew the misty veil 
That o'er her hamlets, roofs, and bowery trees 
Tinged with a Hquid azure the thin air. 
Along the winding path he roves, that none. 
Save feet habituate to its maze, could thread, 
Heedless that here to Elidure's green home 
He came, unweeting visitant. Within, 
Breathless, as though she listen' d in her sleep, 
Close to the door, as jealous lest some ear 
Earher than her own should catch the sound 
Of Elidure's returning tread, or voice 
Anticipate the welcome of her own, 



SAMOR. 



485 



Reclined the bride, soft Evelene. The step 
Up from the pillowing hand her flushing cheek 
Waken'd, or ere the threshold he o'erpast, 
The form yet indistinct to her quick sight, 
Murmur' d her fond upbraiding. " Truant Lord, 
Art thou too changed, thou too of midnight feast 
Enamour' d ? time hath been the rosy cup, 
Thou Saxon in thy revels, had look'd pale 
To Evelene's cheek — 'Tis wretched solace, yet 
'Tis solace in the drear extreme of grief. 
To find one human heart whose deeper woe 
Makes weakness of our wailing." Though alone 
Of the fray's dizzy tumult lay distinct 
Elidure's image on the Wanderer's soul. 
His image as beneath the Saxon steel 
Dying, he struggled back to life from joy 
His stern friend to behold with fiery brand 
Piercing his path of flight, less bitter seem'd 
His cup of woe, when from him sprang that 

bride. 
Nor knew him ; knew him, but not Elidure. 
Then sued for tidings, and with all her soul 
Listen'd but could not hear, mistrusting all 
While yet but fearing, but when all assured, 
Mistrusting even her fears, even then to hope 
Clinging with desperate energy of soul. 
Her Samor left in that dead night of mind, 
When madness were a comfort, all wild whirl, 
All dizzy hurry of rack'd sense were rich. 
Were rapturous to that blank and dismal void, 
When one incessant miserable thought 
Blends with the life, the being of the spirit. 

Him scared no Saxon clarion, the drear blast 
Winding of fleet pursuit ; came o'er his soul 
His own, his wedded Emeric, her babes 
Hushing, while greedily with ear and soul 
She drinks each sound the busy babbling fame 
Spreads on the wandering winds; the fleetest 

steed 
Of Elidure bestriding, still he moves 
A tardy laggard to his soul's desire. 
Sedulous each throng'd haunt of man avoids 
His jealous speed, and still from town and tower 
Came blithely forth the jubilant hymns of peace ; 
Still unextinguish'd their glad brilliance, waned 
In morn's grey mists the yellow festal fires. 

Day pass'd, day sank ; 'tis now the dewy eve. 
Beneath him, in the soft and silent night, 
Spread the fair Valleys, mead and flowery lawn 
With their calm verdure interspersed allay 
The forest's ponderous blackness, or retire 
Under the chequering umbrage of dim groves, 
Whose shadows almost slumber : far beyond 
Huge mountains, brightening in their secret glens, 
Their cold peaks bathe in the rich setting sun. 
Sweeps through the midst broad Severn, deep 

and dark 
His monarchy of waters, its full flow 
Still widening, as he scorn'd to bear the main 
Less tribute than a sea ; or inland roU'd 
Ambitious ocean, of his tide to claim 
The wealthy vassalage. High on its marge 
Shone the Bright Chy, in her Roman pomp, 
Of bath, and theatre, and basilic, 
Smooth swelling dome, and spiring obelisk, 
Glittering like those more soft and sunny towns 



That bask beneath the azure southern skies 
In marble majesty. Silent she stands 
In the rich quiet of the golden light 
The banner on her walls its cumbrous folds 
Droops motionless. But Samor turn'd aloof, 
Where lordly his fair dwelling's long arcade 
On its white shafts the tremulous ghttering light 
Cherish'd, and starry with the river dews 
Its mantle of gay flowers, the odorous lawn 
Down sloped, as in the limpid stream to bathe. 

No watch-dog, with glad bark and fawning joy. 
His Lord saluted: Samor mark'd it not. 
No menial caught the slack rein from his hand : 
He heeded not. No swift familiar step 
Forth started at his coming ; face of joy 
Brightened not — vacant all : yet heeds he not. 
No infants, in their giddy, tottering speed. 
Clung round his knees. So early at their rest ! 
Thought the fond father. Emeric' s chamber dooi 
Stands open ; he but paused his name to hear 
Low mingled with her murmur'd orisons : 
All hush'd as in a tomb ; perchance she sleeps. 
At his long absence heartsick. He the folds 
Gently withdrawing of his nuptial bed. 
As with the amorous violence of his lips 
To wake her to delicious fear, bends down. 
Cold, cold as marble, the forsaken bed 
Received the fervent pressure. Back he sprung'y 
And strange, like one that moveth in his sleep, 
Stood with loose arms and leaden listless gaze. 
Unconscious, to the city walls, far seen 
From that high chamber, rove his eyes: behold 
Against the Sun's last light a wandering breeze 
Swells up the heavy banner ; in the gleam 
The White Horse of the Saxon shakes his mane. 

Then felt he the blank silence, then perceived 
The tumult, and rude disarray that marr'd 
The face of his fair dwelling. Forth he rush'd,. 
As eager that his soul at one wild draught 
Might glut itself with perfect woe, all ill 
Exhausted, laugh drain'd destiny to scorn. 
Cradle and infants' couch with frantic hand 
Hurrying he explores ; the sad chill void 
Almost delights. Now on the river brink 
He watches yon huge forms that pace the walls j 
Saxon their long black lances, Saxon helms 
Nod o'er their lofty brows, terrific gloom. 

Lo ! at his feet, beneath a primrose bed, 
Halfveil'd, and branching alder that o'er-droop'd 
Its dark green canopy, a slumbering child — 
If slumber might be call'd, that but o'erspread 
A wan disquiet o'er the wither'd cheek. 
Choked the thin breath that through the pallid hp 
Scarce struggled, closed not the soft sunken eye. 
Well Samor knew her, of his love first pledge. 
First, playfullest, and gentlest : he but late 
Luxurious in the fulness of his woe. 
Clings to this 'lorn hope like a drowning man. 
Not yet, not yet in this rude world alone. 
Lavish of fond oflScious zeal, he bathes 
With water from the stream her marble brow. 
Chafes her ; and with his own warm breath 

recalls 
The wandering life, that like a waning lamp 
Glimmer'd anon, then faded: but when slow 



486 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Unfix'd her cold unmeaning eye regain'd 

Brief consciousness, powerless her languid arm 

Down fell again, half lifted in his Iiair 

To wrealhe as it was wont, with effort faint 

Strove her hard features for a woeful sraiile : 

And the vague murmurs of her lips 'gan fall 

InteUigible to his ear alone. 

" And thou art come — too late — yet thou art 

come," — 
He soothing her with hope he knew most false, 
Slow model!' d from her broken faltering voice 
One sad continuous story. — " 'Twas at eve 
We went to rest, I never slept so soft ; 
Our mother luU'd us with assurance sweet 
Of thy returning. — By and by I woke. 
But the bright morning was not shining fair, 
Nor the birds,singing as they used. I saw, 
By a dim dusky light, huge iron men 
With hair like fire, and their fierce voices spake 
Strange language : of my prayers I thought, and 

strove 
My eyes to close, still those grim-visaged men 
Stood in the wavering darkness by the light 
Of their blue weapons — then they went away. 
I crept out to my mother's couch ; she lay 
Asleep, but not as I have seen her sleep, 
When I have stolen at morn to look on her. 
And thou hast laid me by her quiet side. 
She shiver' d in her sleeping, and her skin 
Was chilly to the touch, yet, oh to sleep, 
Even as she did, I long'd ; for they came back, 
Those shapes in all their darkness, all their light; 
Before their rugged faces I felt cold 
As in the snow time ; my eyes could not see, 
Oh, but I heard a dizzy sound, like shrieks 
Of many voices all at once. I thought 
Rude hands were busy on my mother's couch, 
As though to bear her thence — yet woke she not. 
Oh Father, I have never look'd on death. 
But she was dead, I felt that she was dead. 
I could not breathe, yet from my thirsty throat 
My voice was bursting, but down o'er me fell 
The foldings of the couch — long, long it seem'd, 
Ere from that cumbrous weight I struggled forth. 
Then all was silent, all except the dash 
Of distant oars : I cried aloud, and heard 
But my own voice, I search'd, yet found I none; 
Not one in all these wide and lofty halls — 
My mother, my sweet brothers gone, all gone. 
Almost I wish'd those fierce men might return 
To bear me too in their dread arms away. 
Hither I wander' d, for the river's sound 
Was joyous to the silence that came cold 
Over my bosom, since the Sun hath shone. 
Yet it seem'd dark — but oh, 'tis darker now, 
Darker, my Father, all within cold, cold. 
The soft warmth of thy lips no more can reach 
This shuddering in my breast^ — yet kiss me 

still."— 

Vain, all in vain, that languid neck no more 
Rises to meet his fondness, that pale hand 
Drops from his shoulder, that wooed voice hath 

spent 
Its last of sweetness : wanted this alone 
That could enhance his agony, baffled hope. 
Quiet and cool the deep tide at his feet 
Rolls with a tranquil murmur ; one lone gleam 



Still lingering from the sunken Sun, beneath 

The moving surface, lightens its cold depth. 

How pleasant in its secret caves to quench 

The soul, the body's fever ; to cast ofl' 

This restless, trembhng consciousness, that clings 

Enamour'd to its anguish, sedulous 

To nurse its own disquiet : not to feel. 

Though cast by wandei'ing waves on Emeric'a 

grave ; 
Though Saxon barks triumphant bound above, 
To feel not, and have freedom though in death. 
For why this barren wilderness of earth 
Still haunt, man's pity, and the arch fiend's scoff; 
Why to the wearying wretchedness of life 
Cling with a coward fondness? — ^but a step 
To quiet — to forgetfulness, a step. 

But alien to proud Samor, those bad thoughts 
Startled his nature, burnt his soul with shame, 
That such unholy musings dare intrude 
On its sad sanctity ; upright he sprung ; 
Oh, not in vain a Christian, with clench'd hand 
And inward rack convulsive of choked pain, 
Forced calmness to his brow, his hollow voice 
Wrought to a mournful fortitude. — " Oh thou, 
Glorious in thy prosperity of crime, 
Hengist, and thou that barter' st thy old fame 
For sweet lascivious chambering, hast uriking'd 
Thy stately soul within the wreathing arms 
Of that fair Saxon, in loose dalliance soft 
To steep the inebriate sense, on Samor's state 
Look, and be pale with envy ; he dare stand 
Lofty beneath yon starry throne of God, 
And bless him, that his fate is scant and poor 
In joys like yours, by all your pomp, your bliss, 
Made lovesick of his misery ; still he feels 
The haughty solace of disdain ; still soothes 
The madness of his grief by pitying you. 
Nor yet, oh impotent of cruelty ! 
I am not utterly from this dark world 
Estranged and outcast: gone, for ever gone. 
Those exquisite mild luxuries of the heart, 
That summer sunshine of the soul, sweet love. 
That makes life what we deem of heaven ; remain 
Hardier delights, severer joys. Oh reft 
Of all thy brave, thy princely, of my faith 
Thou hast a deeper need — be thou my bride, 

Britain ! to thy wreck I proudly wed 
The sadness of my widowhood, and bid 
Pale bridemaids to our nuptials, holy Wrath 
And iron-handed Vengeance ; and invoke 
Death, that dark minstrel, from fast-slaughter'd 

mounds 
Of Saxons, to awake our bridal hymn. 
And spread for torchlight on our spousal eve 
Wild gratulation of their funeral fires. 

" And thou, O stainless denizen of heaven ! 
Soft soul of my lost Emeric, endure 
Though jealous my new bride from thee bereave 
The rude tumultuous day, the midnight hour 

1 consecrate to thee ; then slide thou down, 
Like moonlight on the darkness' raven wing, 
And oh ! if human passion, human love, 
Stain the pure essence of immortal spirits. 
Leave heaven in heaven, earth's frailer loveliness 
Resuming, chaste mild fondness, timorous warmth 
Visit my desert fancy. Him by day, 



S A M R . 



487 



Savage and merciless, vviih soul of steel, 
And pale brow cloudy with a nation's cares, 
Shall midnight find an amorous dreamer fond, 
A dotard on a dim unreal shade." 

Now o'er what was the rosy, playful, warm. 
Now pale, now changeless, icy cold the maid 
Whose blue eyes danced with .rapture, whose 

light step 
Was consort to the air- roving winds (half seal' d 
That lustreless wan azure ; stiff and damp 
Those sprightly limbs,) oft pausing, as yet loath 
To part from what he shuddered to behold, 
Heaps Samor the light earth ; ere o'er her face 
He placed the primrose knot, once stoop'd his 

lips. 
And started to find cold what he knew dead. 

Now closed that mournful office, nearing fast 
Is heard a dash of oars, and at his side 
Forth leap'd an armed Saxon, with raised arm 
Menacing ; but Samor down with scornful 

strength 
The grim intruder dash'd to earth, and fix'd 
His stern heel on his neck, and stood in act 
The life to trample from the gasping trunk. 
Sudden withdrawn his angry tread, he spake, 
"Thee first of Saxon race, the last, this arm 
Spares, not of milky mercy, but as meet 
To minister my purpose ; go unscathed. 
And tell to Hengist, tell thy Lord, who robs 
The Lion's den, should chain the Lion first; 
Add, Samor is abroad." — Then to the boat 
He sprang, and pass'd to Severn's western shore, 



B-OOK VI. 



A VOICE, o'er all the waste and prostrate isle 
Wandereth a valiant voice ; the hill, the dale. 
Forest and mountain, heath and ocean shore 
Treasure its mystic murmurs ; all the winds 
From the bleak moody East to that soft gale 
That wantons with the summer's dewy flowers, 
Familiar its dark burthen waft abroad. 

Is it an utterance of the earth ? a sound 
From the green barrows of ihe ancient dead ? 
Doth fierce Cassivelan's cold sleep disdain 
That less than Caesar with a master's step 
Walk his free Britain ? Doth thy restless grave, 
Bonduca, to the slavish air burst ope. 
And thou, amid the laggard cars of war, 
Cry, " Harness and away !" But far and wide. 
As when from marish dank, or quaking fen. 
Venomous and vast the clouds uproU, and spread 
Pale pestilence along the withering land, 
So sweeps o'er all the isle his wasting bands 
The conqueror Saxon; he, far worse, far worse 
His drear contagion, that the body's strength 
Wastes, and with feverish pallor overlays 
The heaven-shaped features ; this the nobler soul, 
With slavery's base sickliness attaints. 
Making man's life more hideous than his death. 
Thames rolls a Saxon tide; in vain delays 
Deep Severn on Plinlimmon's summits rude 



His narrow freedom, tame anon endures 
Sa.xon dominion : high with arms uplift. 
As he had march'd o'er necks of prostrate kings, 
Caswallon on the southern shore of Trent 
Drives onward, he nought deeming won, while 

aught 
Remains unwon. But still that wonderous voice. 
Like vulture in the grisly wake of war, 
Hovers, and flings on air his descant strange, 
" Vengeance and Vigilance !" — in van, in rear, 
Around, above, beneath, the clouds of Heaven 
Enshroud it in their misty folds ; earth speaks 
From all her caves, " Vengeance and Vigilance !" 
Aye, at that sound the Briton crest assumes 
High courage and heroic shame ; he wears 
With such bold mien his slavery, he might seem 
Lord over fortune, and with calm disdain 
He locks his fetters, like proud battle arms. 
Without a foe o'er this wide land of foes 
Marcheth the Saxon. City, tower, and fort 
On their harsh hinge roll back their summon'd 

gates, 
With such a sullen and reluctant jar. 
Submission seems defiance. Though to fear 
Impassive, scarce the Victor dare unfurl 
Banner of conquest on the jealous air. 
Less perilous were frantic strife, were wrath 
Desperate of fife, and blind to death, wild hate 
Of being struck all heedless so it strike. 
Than this high haughty misery, that fierce woe 
Baffles by brave endurance, and confronts 
With cold and stern contentedness all ill, 
Outrage, and insult, ravage, rape, and wreck. 
That dog barbaric Conquerors' march of war. 
'Tis like the sultry silence, ushering forth 
The thunder's cloudy chariot, rather hke 
The murky smothering of volcanic fire 
Within its rocky prison ; forth anon 
Bursts the red captive, to the lurid heaven 
Upleaps, and with its surging dome of smoke 
Shuts from the pale world the meridian Sun. 
But in their camp, in fierce divan and full. 
The lordly robbers sate, assemblage proud, 
Ethling, and Erie, and King, for council met. 
For council and carousal ;* so they deem'd 
The drunken sense would hardier daring grasp, 
And the bold revel of the blood, the soul 
Flush to more noble valiance, strong desire 
In firce embrace to meet that mistress dark. 
Danger: Hoarse din of merriment, the air 
Smote with meet music blending loud and deep. 

But Horsa lighting with disdainful mirth 
His broad bright eye, 'gan scoff with rugged jest. 
"Ill have we done, though for one sumptuoiis 

feast 
Be ours this spacious isle, ill have we done ; — 
That in our prodigal and heedless waste 
Of those tall high-born Britons spared we none 
To tilt at with our thirsty spears, and scare 
The frost and slumber from our sluggish hearts. 
Now hang we forth our banners to disport 
In the smooth breeze, our armour's steeled clasps 



* De pace denique ac bello plerumque in conviviis 
consultant; tanquam nullo magis tempore aut adsim- 
plices cogitationes pateat animus, aut ad tnagnas in- 
calescat. — Tag. Germ. 



488 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



To summons soft of Lady's tender hands 
Surrender ; or go joust the hardy oaks 
For pastime. Oh ! along these velvet plains 
To prance 'mid timorous hinds with their pale 

souls 
In their white faces, heralds crouching low, 
With looks beseeching, voices meek, clasp'd 

hands ; 
'Tis tame and wearisome as at dead noon 
To rock upon the flat and hazy sea." 

" This too," cried hoary Cerdic ; " this bright 

sword 
Loathes its long Christian fast, yet not despairs 
Erewhile to glut with banquet rich and full 
Its ravening blade ; for trust me, fiery Erie, 
Many a fierce steed hath brook' d the brazen 

curb, 
That chafed anon, from his high seat to dust 
Hath shaken his pale rider : Erie, I read 
In yon bow'd foreheads sterner characters 
Than abject, tame allegiance, homage base : 
There the firm purpose, meditation deep. 
And study of revenge ; the wand of peace 
Is in their hands, but in their souls they grasp 
The battle-axe and spear." — A bitter laugh 
Came with the fierce reply, " Shall Horsa watch 
The shiftings in the visage of a slave ? 
I issue forth my mandate, and 'tis done, 
Whether with cloudy or with sunshine brow 
I know not and regard not." — Cerdic's voice, 
Ruffled to somewhat of prophetic tone; 

"Not, Horsa, to the stones, the deaf dull 

stones. 
Nor the cold current of the senseless winds 
Speaks that wild orator, the Man, whose paths 
Are hidden as the ways of fate, unknown 
Who knoweth all, who seeth all unseen, 
Nor like the lightning shaft his presence dread 
Divulgeth, but to shatter, but to slay. 
Whose breath beneath the soft dove's snowy 

down 
A soul might breathe of valour to outsoar 
The falcon's pitch of pride : I tell thee, Erie, 
This soft effeminate Britain, to our sway 
Gentle and pliant as a willow wand. 
Will that dark Man uprear a ponderous mace 
To crush our infant empire." — " Man ! hath man 
Curdled the blood of Ofia, made his soul 
Patient of that pale trembling motion, fear, 
And Offa live, live shameless of his shame, 
Amid his peers with unblench'd front to say, 
These knees have quail'd, these stubborn joints 

have felt 
The aspen's coward fluttering, and the Sun 
That saw his flight, hath seen not his revenge ? 
Cerdic, the name of perishable man 
Thou dost belie, so tithng beings dim. 
Viewless and formless denizens of air. 
That sport and dally with the human shape, 
Making of mortals to their mortal peers. 
Dark things of doubt and danger. We had 

sworn, 
Gurmund and Sigvart, JEWa, Attilar, 
And other six, than who no German arm 
Sways heavier the long lance, nor German foot 
Treads firmer battle's crimson paths, I speak, 



Fiery-soul'd Horsa, to thy front; to thine. 
High-sceptred Hengist ! mortal steel we swore 
Should choke that full-voiced Wanderer's clamor 

ous breath. 
Sage oath ! as to adjure our souls, and vow 
Th' irregular mad ocean our word ' Peace' 
Should hearken, and sleek smooth his cresting 

waves. 
But gaily went we forth with brand and bow. 
Like hunters to the chase, scoffing our prey. 
' Now if he meet us in his mortal shape, 
Let him melt back into his native air ; 
Then shall he 'scape.' — High o'er our path a 

rock 
Hung beetling, from its summit came a voice, 
'Behold him !' — with the voice a fragment vast, 
An earthquake had been weak to hurl it forth ; . 
Two staf^ely necks to the low earth sank down. 
And o'er them that huge mass lay stern and 

still, 
Like an old giant's monument. But we 
Leap'd onward, JEW^l met the dark unknown, 
Heavy with ruin hung his arm in air. 
But in his valiant heart a javelin stood. 
Drinking the crimson hfe. Still on we swept. 
Many a wild league o'er moor and marish 

swamp, 
Forest and wold, and still our pathway lay 
O'er the warm corpses of our foremost peers. 
Sole, sad survivors of our host, we came, 
Sigvart and Oflfa ; on the giddy brink 
Of precipice abrupt fhe conqueror paused. 
As weary with his prowess, our defeat, 
To mock us with the calmness of his rest. 
' Now come what will,' cried Sigvart, ' come 

what may. 
Or thou, or I, or both.' — Then on he sprung, 
Yet not the more relax'd that shape of gloom 
Its stern contemptuous quiet, waved his arm 
With motion less of strife than proud command. 
And then of Sigvart's fall the deep abyss 
Sent up a hollow sound. I fled, proud Peers ; 
I say again, I fled, and, or disdain' d 
That being dark a lone and single foe. 
Or by the shielding of our mightier Gods, 
I 'scaped." — " I too (cried Hermingard,) I too 
Of that mysterious Wanderer have known 
The might and savage mercy. I had stray'd 
Into a fabric fair, of Christian Gods, 
A fane it seem'd, rich-crested pillars ranged 
On either side, above the hollow roof 
Aye lessening, seem'd to melt into the air 
On which it floated. — High uprear' d there shone 
An altar, bright with chalice, lamp, and cup. 
All of the flaming gold. I rush'd to seize ; 
An arm was on my neck, that dash'd me down 
Like a soft infant ; then a vengeful voice 
Struck on my dizzy hearing — ' But thy blood 
Would dye this holy pavement with foul stain, 
Heathen, thy soul and mortal shape were rent 
Asunder.' — As I fled, I turn'd — rechned 
Low by that altar on his knees, all quench' d 
Fierce wrath and fiery menace, drooping all 
Stern pride of mastery, triumph, and high scorn, 
That wild Unknown, calm not with weariness, 
Gentle but not with sleep. Majestic light 
Beam'd on the quiet of his heavenward brow, 
Yet human tears stood glittering in his eyes. 



SAMOR. 



489 



My thoughts were vengeance, but the cold clear 

air 
Went creeping up my veins, an awful frost 
Drank up the languid current of my blood, 
And unrevenged I fled that tranquil Man." 

Upsprang young Abisa, and beauteous scorn 
Curl'd his smooth cheek — " In tumult or in calm, 
But have he blood within his beating veins, 
Mine is a steel of such a searching thirst, 
'Twill drain its crimson source." " Thou ! wan- 
ton Boy," / 
The pale laugh wrinkling on his swelling lip, 
"Thou! thou! (cried Offa) with thy mother's 

milk 
Yet white within thy beardless cheek." — "Proud 

Jute, 
The stem of Woden is a m.ounting tree. 
Its saphngs soar to meet the golden Sun, 
While tamer shrubs creep with base trail on earth. 
Hengist, my King, my Brother ! by our Sire 
I swear, that ne'er again metheglin cup 
Shall sparkle on these hps, till I have met 
This mystic deity of Offa's fear." 

Then on the Monarch turn'd all eyes ; he sate 
In darkness, or, by chance or art, the lamps 
Stream'd bright and yellow down the festal board 
But fell no ray within his folded robe. 
Yet wore not Hengist on his brow his soul. 
High spake he from its cold and stately calm 
Law to the lawless, to the dauntless dread; 
But his were rarer qualities of power. 
Dominion o'er himself; deep, deep within 
Dwelt all the stormy passions ; by no eye 
Pierced in its dark abiding lay the spirit 
Witli all its shames and grandeurs, loves and 

hates, 
And all its greedy family of lusts. 
Though now there seem'd beneath his royal crown 
A faint uncertain paleness, as of fear 
Not wholly quell'd, and on his cheek and lip 
Hover'd a quivering motion, ere he spake. 
But cool his speech. — "Presumptuous youth, thy 

oath 
Though wild, is holy — Woden guard thee well. 
Yet art thou sole in madness ? time hath been 
When the brave frenzy of rash daring spread 
A broad contagious flame through all our camp, 
Till not a sword but shamed its sluggish sheath. 
Needed not Saxon king, as now, to gild 
Fair danger ere it pleased, as now proclaim 
Rich guerdon to the warrior, that aspires 
To rival Woden's blood, and be the peer 
Of Abisa in peril and renown. 
More lofty duties fetter thee and me. 
High Horsa" — (for the fiery warrior's hand 
Had started to his sword's famihar hilt) 
Rob we not of their fame the vahant Erles." 

No seat was vacant, not a voice came forth. 
As he were single in his shame sate each, 
Nor dared on his compeers to look, in fear 
Soul might be there more dauntless than his own. 
Blank silence all ! but loud that silence spake 
Not vainly, Samor, worn thy title proud. 
Avenger ! by thy country's Conquerors thou 
Magnificently deified; so soar'd 
62 



Thy mortal virtue o'er their tamer Gods. 
Not that the vassal elements thy sway 
Hearken'd, nor beings of the middle air 
Stoop'd on their glistening wings to work thy will. 
Avenger ! but for thee, the Almighty wrought 
Most marv'lous, most mirac'lous ; in thy soul. 
That nobler field, high wonders manifold 
Labour'd to light and lustre : for what thought 
Unwing'd by in-breathed Godhead e'er might 

dream 
Of glory to be born from this broad night 
Of desolation and deep darkness, strive 
For faint, impalpable, and airy good. 
Through the thick clouds of evil and of woe, 
Strong, stately, constant, like an eagle set 
To drink the last light of the parting sun ? 
What heart of earthly clay, that ne'er imbibed 
Holier and purer ether, might endure 
Danger, dismay, despair, all ills that wring 
Within, and rack and rankle ? not alone 
Fierce wrong and insult of triumphant foe, 
But worse, far worse, from those our friends mie- 

deem'd. 
Pity of calm, cold cowards, or rude scorn 
From sleek and smiling slaves ; or scoff and mock 
At our hard suflferings from those ingrate hearts 
For whom we suffer ; these the woes that wait 
That nobly desperate, who with steadfast hand 
The statue of his country's fame, down dash'd 
And trampled by barbarian feet, ingrain'd 
With the coarse dust and black, before the world 
Would rear again to sov'reignty and state. 
But thou did'st strive and suffer, thou didst hope, 
And therefore in thy dark and silent deeds 
Beam'd manifest God's Spirit ; till in thee 
Even the base body that e'er clogs and clouds 
The nobler energies, its state infirm 
Shook oft^, and by communion close assumed 
The soul's immortal essence, or the soul 
A climate and pecuHar atmosphere 
Spread round its weaker instrument of power. 
Hence human accidents of heat and cold, 
Famine and thirst, wasting and weariness, 
Fell fight and thin upon thy tranquil frame, 
Like flakes of snow upon th' unbroken lake ; 
Thus didst thou pass most fearless, and most 

fear'd; 
By virtue, and that foeman's dread, array'd 
In attributes of strong divinity ; 
Danger became thy safety, thy renown 
Grew from thy utter desperate wretchedness. 

But now the more enjoy'd that Saxon youth 
His solitude of glory ; forth he springs 
Hasty, lest valorous repentance fire 
Some rival Erie of half his peril yet 
To wrong him. In his tent, soft languid sounds 
Expiring on her falling lute, arose 
To welcome home her Lord his beauteous slave-, 
His slave ! is that her slavery, round his neck 
The snowy girdle of her arms to wreathe ? 
To catch a master's mandate doth she raise 
The bashful fringes of her eyes, and meet 
Those glances of no lordly scorn, that soothe 
Her gentle wayward angriness of love. 
Soothe, dare not chide, that coldness faint and brief 
That would be wooed, but sweeter to be won? 
Nor dares not she withhold that arm upraised 



490 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



From their high stand tlie furniture of fight, 
Glaive, corslet, morion to displace; her touch 
Now clings with soft resistance, playful now 
'Thwarts his stern purpose. — "Oh, remove not 

them ; 
In hours of absence, thou too dearly lovest, 
They are my comfort, my companions they, 
My all but thou : the dusky shades of eve 
Brown o'er their glittering steal, and there array, 
A bright and armed man, th' officious air 
Gives motion, and with all thy graceful pride 
Shakes the light plumage ; thou art there, in spite 
Of thy own tardy lingering, thou art there. 
Oh, I have woke at midnight, when my soul 
With thee hath been a wanderer through sad 

fields, 
'Mid death and battle, though my lightest touch 
Had proved thee by my side, yet my faint hand 
Lack'd courage with that dangerous proof to front 
My unsubstantial fears. Oh then, if light 
Of star or moon on their blue surface gleam'd. 
Or wind awoke them into sound, again 
Calm on my pillow droop'd my cheek to rest. 
Secure to find thee sweetly slumbering there. 
Yet, yet unwon, oh, lighten that cold brow. 
And I will sing the soft and sleepy song 
That makes a woman of thy angry eyes, 
Lulls the rude tumult in thy troubled breast. 
Leaving nought there but melody and me." 

Then started she to feel how hard and cold 
Between her and her bosom's resting-place 
The corslet lay, by stealth her fond embrace 
Supplanting ; gently his one arm declined 
Over her neck, in careless fondness hangs ; 
Busy the other, its rude office frames, 
Linking the breastplate's clasps; now holds he 

back 
From her approaching lips his cheek, to fix 
The weighty morion ; but her garrulous grief 
Paused not — " At midnight ! now ! oh brave mis- 
dee ni'd, 
Misdeem'd, who only th' open day would front 
With his bold armour ; v^'ho but I would love, 
I, weak and brain-sick, one whose valour shrouds 
Its prowess in the cloudy gloom of night ? 
Oh not, oh not to war, thou goest to win 
Some lovelier or some newer bride. Go, go ; 
Though faithless, barbarous, cruel, cold to me. 
Yet make not her too wretched, make not her 
Heart-sick with sad expectance." — But her arms 
Belied her desperate language, closer clasp'd 
With more than maiden strength. "Oh, stony 

heart, 
And I for thee forsook my infant home, 
Where all my steps were music, all my smiles 
Glad sunshine to my parents' wintry blood. 
That glanced like summer waters at my sight : 
For thee did violence to my virgin fame : 
By war's rude force might I have seem'd en- 

thrall'd, 
A luckless, pitied damsel ; my fond heart 
III brook' d the coarse reproach of ravisher 
Should couple with a name so dear as thine. 
At night-fall fled I to thee ; even as now 
The stars shone beauteous, and a kindly gloom 
Curlain'd our meeting even as now ; no change 
From soft and fond and gentle, but in thee." — 



"Peace, trembler, peace! to-morrow's dawn 

shall hail, 
Borne in the shield of honour, on the necks 
Of his tall peers, thy Abisa ; no voice 
Silent, no quiet in the troubled air. 
Restless with his hymn'd triumph, Offa's heart 
Sick with wan envy. Then, Myfanwy, then 
My glory shall make rapture of thy tears, 
And thou shalt bless the grief that wrings thee 

now." 
" Oh, glory hath astern and savage mate, 
Danger her lawless paramour, enfolds 
Her beauties in his churlish arms. Oh pause, 
And yet farewell, 'tis exquisite to part, 
For oh, thou weep'st at parting, 'twas past hope 
To see a tear on that stern face for me."— 

She hath her last cold kiss through the barr'd 
helm 
Won hardly ; she is calm as though it dwelt 
Yet on her lips ; she hears his parting steps, 
Yet lingers on her cheek that liquid glow, 
That brilliant harmony of smile and tear 
That at the presence of the one beloved 
FUts o'er the settled purple of the- cheek. 
Oh, if soft woman hath her wilder fears, 
She hath her wilder hopes, for man's stern grasp 
Too thin, too airy ! " Never yet found false, 
Thou wilt return ;" (so wanton'd her gay dreams) 
" So young, so lovely, fate would shame to snatch 
So early the choice glories of the earth." 
Then sate she down triumphal coronets 
To weave, but not in modest quiet grief, 
And gentle resignation pale and mild, 
But with a dancing heart and bright bhthe eye : 
And when her eyelids droop'd, soft o'er her came 
A sweet inconstant slumber, such as sleep 
Love-dreaming maidens ere their bridal morn. 
But through the clear calm night, the azure plain 
Of heaven, with all its glittering paths of light 
Distinct and dazzUng, moved that fair-hair'd 

youth : 
So if old fable may be won to smile 
Its grace upon our darker tale, the boy, 
Smooth-cheek'd Endymion, his enamour'd Moon 
Wooed with no lawless witchcraft from her sphere: 
Nor she delay'd, her silver-sandal'd feet 
Gliding and glancing o'er the dews she came, 
And cartain'd in a cloud of snowy Ught, 
Mock'd mortal harps that hymn'd her cold and 

chaste. 
No amorous fancies o'er thy downless cheek 
Flushing their rosy heat, no love-lipp'd tones 
In sweet disturbance stealing on the air, 
Young Abisa ! with more imperious charm 
Thou summon'st from wild wood or cavern'd 

heath, , 

Nor vainly, their fierce habitant. Behold, 
A shadow by thine own, its stately length 
On the white dews advancing ; at thy side 
The Avenger, as upsprung from nether earth. 

Then fatal gladness leap'd in that young heart, 
He flung his vizor' d helmet proudly up, 
And dash'd defiance 'gainst fierce Offa's dread. 

But Samor, for when his pure heart was wean'd 
From all the faint and feeble of his kind, 



SAMOR. 



491 



The mercies clung within, and gentleness 
So mingled with his nature, that it slaked 
Even the blood- thirsting frenzy of revenge ; 
Samor that beauteous youth survey'd, the stars 
Glimmer'd a blue and hazy light, that show'd 
His soft locks spreading their bright clusters wide. 
His vermeil cheek most lovely in its wrath, 
And brow that seem'd to wonder and delight 
At its own dauntlessness. So tall, so fair. 
Oft had he imaged his own perish' d boy 
In flower of youth, that flower which never 

bloom' d. 
Tender and mild his voice, as though he spake 
Even to that dead beloved — " Oh, brave and fair, 
Why thus abroad amid the silent night, 
With menace and fierce gesture wild and 

strange?" 
" Thou heardst my call, thou seest my arms, my 

aim 
Idly thou question'st." — " 'Tis not, gentle youth. 
Thy golden luxury of hair, nor cheek 
Warm in the rosy wantonness of youth, 
But thy brave bearing, gallant mien and proud, 
That winds long-banish' d mercy round my 

sword, 
To save from it one Saxon life." — " Soft praise, 
And sweet from lady's lips, but not to hear 
Smooth Flattery's descant come I, but to win 
What, being won, is in its lofty self 
Imperishable beauty, garlands youth 
With honour passing the white hairs of age, 
Glory, the life of life." — " And is there none 
Whose pillow dreams of thee are haunting now? 
No molher, whose last waking thought was 

hope. 
At morn, to meet thee in thy wonted glow 
Of loveliness and life ? No gentle maid 
Whom the bare thought of paleness in thy cheek, 
Of death's wan chill upon thy brow,v.'Ould waste 
And wither like the canker'd flower of spring? 
Return to her, oh fair, high-minded youth I 
Ere yet too late, return." — But more delay 
The hot youth brook'd not ; down he clasp'd his 

helm. 
And leaping to the frantic onset, cried, 
" Now, OfFa, for thy shame, and for thy meed, 
My brother Hengist !" — As when lightning flame 
Dashes at midnight o'er his slumbering lids. 
Up starts the wild steed, all his tawny mane 
Bristling and blazing, he devours the earth 
In fury ; even so sudden those rash words 
Set flames upon the Avenger's brow, set wrath 
On the impetuous motion of his spear. 

Oh, holy Night! in thy injurious gloom 
How blank the proud distinctions of man's fame ! 
Languor and loftiness, and shame and pride 
In one dead darkness, deep forge tfulness. 
Lie, as within a grave, till Virtue's self, 
But for her haughty consciousness within, 
Might weary of her mute and viewless deeds. 
Secret and still ! that I might violate 
Thy mysteries, and redeem from envious gloom 
That Saxon boy's dead honours, dearly won, 
Most dearly, yet most nobly. Morn shall tell 
The issue of that conflict, but no .Tiorn 
Will dawn upon his silent, perish'd praise. 



Two hours are past, alone the Avenger moves 
Under the stars of heaven ; 'tis midnight deep, 
Now comes his hour of softness ; love-sick boy, 
Tuning soft frenzies to his wanton lute. 
Is not more wild, fantastical, or fond, 
Than Britain's stately hope, high Hengist'a 

dread. 
For ever at this hour, of parted joy 
Dim gleams revisit his forsaken soul, 
Like once-loved music o'er a maniac's ear; 
Faintly and feebly sweet, the dead put on 
Their earthly lustre ; Emeric comes, as fair 
As from the bridal altar, but less coy. 
In fervent full abandonment of love. 
The breezes are melodious with her voice, 
The dews are printed by her slender feet, 
She flows into his arms, her fond embrace 
Is warm upon his soul. Thus aye she comes, 
Or when 'tis wintry in the starless skies, 
Or when the moonlight bathes the earth, to her 
Heaven opes its crystal portals, beauteous light 
Ushers her presence, sleep can ne'er estrange 
That luxury from his heart ; when consciousness 
Of all things earthly slumbereth and is dead, 
She haunts within, her sweet intrusion cHnga 
To the luU'd spirit, senseless but to her, 
All, all the living of the man is her's. 

Oh, in their dreamings, their communions wild 
With airy, immaterial visitants. 
Most differ Guilt and Virtue ; there are shapes 
Hideous and hateful, snaky Gorgon smiles, 
And all the fabled populace of hell. 
Brooding disquiet o'er the thorny couch; 
But Virtue's visions are almost as fair 
As angels' blest realities ; to thee 
Lovely thy nightly visitant, sad Chief! 
As to man, sinless yet in Eden bowers, 
On beds of odorous amaranth asleep. 
Yet uncreated, came his virgin bride. 
Delicate phantom ; then his fresh pure soul 
Amorous enchantment first entranced, first rose 
That our best feeling, of lost Paradise 
That sole surviving pleasure, holy love. 

Beauteous thy blue uprising, mist-robed Morn ! 
All thy bright glittering of fantastic dews 
With their thin tissue silkejiing the green meads, 
And all thy music of blithe leaves that dance 
In the caressing breeze, and matins gay 
From all the living woodland, Sleep is pleased 
To be so sweetly banish'd her soft reign. 
But dreary are thy sounds, and sad thy light 
On the lewd wassail, riot's orgies rude. 
Polluting day with sights that shame dark night. 
Now from the state pavilion forth are pour'd 
The synod of high banqueters, their eyes 
Hot with loose raptures and distemper'd joy. 
Voluptuously turbulent their souls. 
Right in their way stood fix'd a lofty spear. 
Not with gay garland crown'd, or streaming 

silk. 
But, with that beauteous head that yesternight 
Confronted them with graceful pride ; the cheek 
Where wantonly youth's rosy banner gleam'd. 
Pale, dewy, stiffening, lifeless, lustreless ; 
Part matted with red damp the golden locks 



492 



HENxflY HART MIL MAN, 



Clung round the spear, part curling on the air, 
Sad semblance show'd of life, in all the rest 
Making the stillness and fix'd cold more dread. 

No cheek was there so bright, voluptuous 

heart 
So hot, but, hke bleak snow, fear fell on it 
With a cold thrill and searching ; if their sight 
Had yet perception, humbler chiefs might draw 
From high example comfort for their dread ; 
Brow might they see with kingly crown beset. 
White, sad, and shrunken as their own. Alone, 
Fierce smiled the pride of OfTa; he held up 
To those wan Ops the sparkling shell of mead : 
"Drink, thou hast kept thy oath, drink, soft- 

lipp'd boy !" 

O'eT all the camp spread loud and wide and far 
The name of Abisa ; Myfanwy heard 
Where lay she dreaming half, and fabhng half 
Of garlands and of gay triumphal pomp. 
How nimble are the feet that bear light hearts ! 
She is gone forth, and all for joy forgot 
The veil e'er wont to dim her dazzling cheek, 
Forgot the braiding of her hair, the maid 
So soft, so timorous, at the wanton breeze 
She oft hath trembled, 'neath day's eye retired 
Even from the fondness of her own loved youth. 
Through files of warriors, who uncasque their 

brows 
To fill their curious gaze, she hurries on, 
She knows not what she seeks, that cheek, that 

eye 
Which fed on her with such excess of love 
As if 'twere worse than blindness to lose sight 
Of its sole idol ; only she is bhthe. 
She only smiling 'mid those many sad. 
She meets even all she longs for ; up from earth 
(For now from that sad eminence of scorn 
Had friendly hand removed it, now had cleansed 
Its damp defilement) that dear face on her 
Settled its fix'd and inexpressive gaze. 
Her mien was strangely rational, her look 
Like one that calmly ponder' d what it saw, 
Her voice articulate and passionless. 
"Who hath done this?"— "The Avenger, the 

unknown," 
Spake many voices. — " Oh, my hands are weak; 
Ye see them soft and delicate and white. 
But thou, and thou, and thou, art bold and 

strong. 
And bear' St bright armour, ye will sure requite 
The slaughter on the slaughterer's head." — En- 
sued 
Brief moments of a stagnant grief, life paused, 
As 'twould prolong unconsciousness ; delay 
Yet, yet that state that wakes with waking 

sense. 
Then kindled up her eye, but not with joy, 
Then flush' d her cheek a hght and sanguine 

red. 
That its fair marble flitted o'er, but left 
Nor tinge nor warmth ; she snatch'd up to her 

heart 
That lifeless thing and fled ; as some fond bird 
With spread wings hovering o'er her nest, looks 

round 
At some black shape of fear, then turns to see 



If yet her callow brood are slumbering safe : 

So wandering her dim eye on all around, 

Anon with full intensity of love, 

Settled on her cold care. She reach'd the tent, 

There miserly her treasure she o'erbroods; 

She lays it on her lap, and sings to it. 

Now gazes as she thought even yet those eyes 

Might open, those wan lips, their wonted sounds 

Murmur, now almost sees a forming smile : 

Now gaily carols on her broken songs, 

Ever his favourite, most familiar tones. 

And now breaks off, as fearful to disturb 

His quiet slumbers, only speaks in smiles, 

Language by him e'er understood, and once. 

Once her rash lips approach'd : so pass'd the 

hours 
From earhest morning till the setting sun. 
Then that wild spirit and playfulness of grief 
Sadden' d to drear sobriety, gave place 
Sweet-dreaming twilight to the bright clear day. 
Then first she thought of beasts and fowls 

obscene 
Battening on his fair limbs, no hand to heap 
The scanty pity of a little earth 
Upon the brave, the princely, and the fair: 
Envious of partner in her sacred toil. 
Bearing her cold wan burthen in her arms. 
Alone upon the quiet quest she speeds. 
She fears not, ah too wretched now to fear ! 
Darkness is on her steps, but what to her 
Though nature's rich varieties are blank ? 
Her guide the unblinded sympathies within ; 
The love that link'd her to his living soul 
Will light her to him lifeless ; yon wan stars, 
That struggle with the haze, are bright enough 
To beam upon the dead. But now more fast 
Their golden cressets multiply, more clear, 
And lo fierce Offa in her path : his eye 
Fix'd on her with a rude imperious lust. 
As the pollution of his bad desires 
Did honour to their victim. But the maid. 
Unbelieving, unsuspecting aught impure. 
With sweet beseeching, almost with caress. 
Would win her onward passage ; when her soul 
Was startled into fear, she would not think 
Such savage nature dwelt in human hearts. 
She wept, she sued, she drew the veil away, 
Upheld that lovely lifeless thing — in vain : 
The snowy dove is in the rude kite's grasp, 
Pale, fluttering, fainting ; upon Heaven she 

call'd, 
Cruelly calm look'd on her the cool skies ; 
She call'd on Abisa, but only felt 
More deeply that cold glassiness of face, 
That dull, indifferent witness of her shame ; 
But in the stress and hurry of despair 
Strange energies were hers, with frantic voice 
She call'd on the Avenger — Lo, he comes, 
Terrible in the silence of his arms, 
And earth is dank with OfTa's lustful blood. 
But her first motion was a frantic kiss 
On Abisa's cold lips, as though for him 
Proud of the untainted treasure of her love ; 
Then turn'd to her preserver, but with looks 
Of loathing more than thankfulness ; he stood 
In gentle majesty serene, yet proud 
Of that light victory, oi prevented crime 
Severely joyful ; bitter strife of heart 



S A M O R . 



493 



Spake in her language — ' ' Had it been but 

deatli, 
I yet had cursed thee ! oh, look here, looli 

here ! 
(And she withdrew the clust'ring curls that 

veil'd 
The rigid deathfulness of that fair brow) 
Oh, one sole feeling to this dead heart seem'd 
A duty and delight, the hate of thee. 
Cruel, even that thou enviest me, even that." 
" That, British maiden ! is a Saxon's face, 
Yet mourns thy amorous heart in guilty tears ?" 
" Is there not beauty in a Saxon cheek. 
Is there not music on a Saxon's tongue, 
Is there not tenderness in Saxon hearts ? 
Oh, he is kind and true, his love to me 
Almost as deep and fond, as mine to him : 
Wild that I am, he was — that fatal was 
Makes agony my sacred thought of him." — 
" Maiden, by Wye's transparent stream abode 
An aged pair, and their declining day 
One beauteous child enlighten' d, and dispensed 
Soft moonlight o'er their darkening eve ; they 

thought 
The only pang of death from her to part. 
But heavy was their sinking to the grave, 
For that fair beam in unchaste darkness quench'd 
Ita virgin lustre, and its light withdrew, 
Of their old hmbs the life : alone they dwelt, 
In discontent and cold distaste of all, 
As her ingratitude had made them sick 
Of the world's hollowness, and if she fail'd 
All earthly things must needs be false and frail. 
They ne'er reproach'd her, for so near the grave 
They could not hate ; but for her sake they 

loathed 
Each old familiar face, that once they loved. 
Where she was wont to wander, wander' d they ; 
The garden flowers she tended, they bound up 
With woeful care ; their chill and shaking hands 
Made tremulous music with her lute : I shrunk 
In hoary age to see such childish joys. 
They felt one after-pleasure ; the same hour 
They glided from their woes, their parting breath, 
Blended in languid blessings on her head. 
For her went suppliant to the throne of God, 
Their lost Myfanwy." — TrernbUng stood she 

there. 
Like one that strives to weep, but the hard tears 
Are frozen in their source. " Oh thou and I, 
Sweet Abisa (to that cold head she spake,) 
We will go weep upon their graves, and win 
Their spirits to forgiveness ; when they hear 
How fervent and how fatal were our loves. 
Heaven will lend airs to waft their mercy down." 
" Fond Maid, beware I repentance must be chaste 
And spotless as the unsunn'd snow ; wilt thou 
Yet wanton with the memory of thy sin. 
Bad thoughts at revel in thy heart, with vows 
Lightly made up of guilty breath impure, 
Pollute and sicken the clear air that dwells 
About the holy dwellings of the dead ; 
Waver from God to Pagan paramour 
With wandering loose affections?" " Hard and 

cold 
Be thou content to have robb'd this widow'd heart 
Of that most lovely breathing thing earth bore, 
ut spare, oh spare the sinless, senseless dead ! 



Cruel, by yon bright stars I oft have sworn 
Ne'er to forego him; shall I crown my sins 
With perjury ? I will weep, and fast, and pray. 
And wear the rough stones with my lender knees, 
So thou wilt leave me my sad thoughts of him. 
Oh, God hath grace for all; my earliest prayer 
Shall be for mercy on his perish'd soul, 
The next for those who dying pray'd for me, 
And for my sad and sinful self the last," 

Most exquisite sorcery of womankind ! 
Even to the fall'n some cherish' d loveliness 
Yet clings, with innocent hypocrisy 
Tricking their failures in such tender hues, 
We blame with tears, enamour'd while we blame. 
Even thus her fervent constancy of love 
Brighten'd that guilty maiden. — " God will weigh 
With righteous hand thy sorrows and thy sins, 
Damsel ; I nor absolve thee, nor condemn. 
Come thou with me, and we will reunite 
That beauteous boy's remains : oh thou, even 

thou, 
Knew'st thou the studious cruelties, cold crimes 
By these barbarians wrought on this sad land, 
Wouldst pardon this dishonour to the corpse 
Of that brave youth." — She leap'd up to his 

neck, 
' ' And who art thou, that doest such savage deeds, 
Yet forcest us to love thee ?" — On they past, 
They reach'd the place of death, he dug away 
The earth that fenced from wandering kite and 

wolf 
Young Abisa's fair Umbs ; he soothed her woes 
By soft participation, her consoled 
By suffering, and the Christian's voice rose up 
In prayers for mercy on a Saxon's soul. 



BOOK VII. 



How measureless to erring human sight 
Is glory ! Glorious thy majestic state, 
Hengist ! with captive cities for thy thrones. 
And captive nations thy pale satellites, 
Britain, with all her beauty, power, and wealth, 
Thy palace of dominion. Glorious thou, 
Caswallon, in Caer Ebranc's stately courts. 
By the slow waters of the wandering Ouse, 
Bright- sceptred Renegade ! Even in your crimes 
Glitters a dazzling and meteorous pomp; 
Though your wild voyage hath lain through waves 

of blood. 
Ye ride triumphant in your royal port. 
But he, c?.d Pilgrim, outcast and forlorn, 
How doth the midnight of his honour shame 
Your broad meridian, his wild freedom pass 
Your plentitude of sway, his nakedness 
Transcend your sweeping purples, ray'd with 

gold! 
Nor wanteth to his state its gorgeous pride. 
And high peculiar majesty ; the pomp 
Of the conspiring elements sheds on him 
Tumultuous grandeurs ; o'er his midnight couch. 
Amid the scathed oaks of the mountain moor. 
On its broad wings of gloom the tempest stoops. 
Around his head in crystal coronets 



494 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



The lightning falls, as though thy fiery hand, 

Almighty ! through the rolling clouds put forth. 

Did honour to the Freeman. Mighty winds 

And the careering thunders spread around 

Turbulent music ; darkness rivals day 

And day with darkness vies in stateliest pride 

The Avenger's lofty miseries to array. 

When from the East forth leaps the warrior Sun 

In panoply of golden hght, dark cowers 

His own proud eagle, marvelling what strong 

form , 
Uprising to usurp his haughty right. 
Drinks in the intense magnificence with brow 
Undazzled and unshrinking ; nor to him 
Fails homage from the living shapes of earth : 
On him the savage, fierce and monstrous, fawn 
Tame adoration ; from his rugged sleep 
The wild boar, sleek his bristling wrath, aloof 
Shrinks, the grim wolf no more his rest disturbs, 
Than the calm motion of the moon she bays. 

Now, by her native sylvan Wye, that Maid 
Left to cold penitence and prayer, again 
Sets forth the high Avenger : now his path 
Through Towey's vale winds velvet soft and 

green. 
The year is in its waning autumn glow, 
But the warm Sun, with all his summer love, 
Hangs o'er this gentle valley, loath to part 
From the blue stream that to his amorous beams 
Now her cool hosom spreads, now coyer slides 
Under her alder shade, whose umbrage green, 
Glancing and breaking the fantastic rays, 
The deep dark mirror frets with mazy light. 
A day that seems in its rich noon to blend 
All seasons' choice deliciousness, high hung 
On Dinevaur and Carreg Cennon rude, 
And on bold Drusslyn gleam'd the woods their 

hues. 
Changeful and brilliant, as their leaves had drunk 
The sun's empyreal fountains ; not more bright 
The groves of those Atlantic Isles, where rove 
<Dream'd elder Poesy such fancies sweet) 
The spirits of the brave, stern Peleus' son, 
And Diomede, through bowers that the blue air 
Arch'd with immortal spring of fragrant gold. 
The merry birds, as though they had o'er- 

dream'd 
The churlish winter, spring-tide virelays 
Carolling, pruned their all-forgotten plumes. 
Upon the sunny shallow lay the trout 
Kindhng the soft gems of its skin ; the snake 
As fresh and wanton in its green attire 
Wound its gay rings along the flowery sward. 

That overpowering beauty in mild bonds 
Of sweet amazement and infatuate bliss, 
Took prisoner Samor's spirit. On a rock, 
'Neath a white canopy of glistening birch. 
He lay surrender'd. The thin whispering leaves, 
The welling water's flow, the lingering, long, 
Love-dwelUng descant of the joyous birds 
Came mingling with the languor of his sense. 
Most soothing each in turn, most slumb'ring soft. 

'Tis no harsh breaking in that train of sound 
Delicious, but a low and measured dash 
That blends and deepens all the mingling tones ; 



'Tis nought to cloud or dim that slow intrudes 
On the universal brilliance ; crowning all 
Moves the gay apparition, and fii-es up 
The restless glittering to intenser blaze. 

Slow up the tide the gaudy bark comes on, 
Her oars scarce startling the unruflfled air ; 
The waters to her swan-like prow give place, 
Along the oar-blades leap up to the sun 
In lucid flakes, and dance, as 'twere their sport 
To waft that beauteous freight. And exquisite 
As that voluptuous Memphian on the stream 
Of Cydnus, leading with bliss-breathing smiles 
Her throngs of rash beholders, glided down 
To welcome to his soft imprisonment 
The Lord of half the world, so wondrous fail" 
Under an awning cool of fluttering silk 
The Lady of that graceful galley sate. 
But not in her instinct the melting form 
With passion, the smooth limbs in dazzling glow 
Translucent through the thin lascivious veil. 
Skilful with careless blandishments to fire 
The loose imaginations, she herein 
Least Kke that Oriental harlot Queen. 
Of all her shape, of all her soul was pride 
The sustenance, the luxury, the life. 
The innate scorn of her full eye repaid 
With lofty thankfulness the homage fawn'd 
By her fair handmaids, and her oarmen gay, 
Who seem'd to wanton in their servile toil. 
Around she gazed, as in her haughtiness 
She thought that God had form'd this living pomp 
Of woodland, stream, and rock, her height of soul 
To pamper, that to welcome her the earth 
Attired its breathing brightness, and the sun 
Only on her look'd from his azure sphere. 

Knows Samor that bright Lady ? Who knows 
not 
Amid her twinkhng retinue of stars 
The queenly summer moon ? Ye too he knows, 
The minion rowers of her royal state, 
Entitled once by courteous falsehoods bland 
Nobles of Britain, from the general wreck 
Most despicably saved by Saxon scorn, 
Meet vassalage for Vortigern, now shrunk 
And dwindled from proud Britain's sov'reign lord 
To petty Prince of Dyfed.* Ye yet cling 
Even to the hollow semblance of a crown, 
Ye gauzy summer motes, that float and bask 
In the warm noontide of a court, light things 
Of noise and glittering, that to royal ears 
Tinkle your poisonous flatteries, then most proud 
When most obtrusive your gay nothingness. 

Under a rock where Samor lay unseen 
Beneath the sparkling birchen shade, the bark 
Glided so near, the silver-twinkHng leaves _jj 

Play'd like a wavering veil o'er the bright face 
And marble neck of that reclining Queen. 

Now, Samor, now 'tis at thy thirsty lips. 
The cup of vengeance, now quaff deep, quaff 

deep ! 
Now, by the bones that bleach on Ambri plain, 
By thy lost Emevic's silent chamber bowers, 

* Or, Diraetia, i. e. South Wales, 



SAMOR, 



495 



By that soil cheek o'er which the primrose blooms, 
Now launch the unerring javelin ! lo, she tempts, 
The Saxon's daughter, and the false King's bride, 
The tame and baffled lingering of revenge. 

And up the Avenger stood ; a ray of light 
Quiver'd the brandish' d javelin; creeping awe 
Froze up the rowers' hearts ; down fell the oars. 
And to the shore round swung the ungovern'd 
bark. 

But 'mid those feminine and timorous men 
Intrepid that soft lady her fair front 
Advanced, and, " Who art thou, whose impious 

arm 
'Gainst royalty's annointed head dare sway 
Irreverent menace?" — "One whom grinding 

wrong. 
And injuries savage, black, and manifold 
Have almost madden'd to the deep base shame 
Of Boihng his bright arms with woman's blood." 
(He cast the javelin from him, and went on:) 
"But tell thy sire, Rowena, tell thy lord, 
Britons have yet to learn their codes of war, 
That yet fastidious vengeance will not slake 
But on a worthy victim its deep thirst." 

Then was the mingUng of their looks elate, 
Aa when two falcons, far from this low earth , 
Meet in the sun's broad blaze, they, glad and 

proud 
Each of their kindred, flap their radiant wings. 

"I know thee now, majestic Rebel! thee 
The untraceable, untameable ! I know 
The chosen Man of Fate ! of all our race 
The designated danger ; merciful 
Saxon ne'er coupled with thy name till now. 
Yet think not thou from rivalry aloof 
In proud and lonely excellence to stand, 
For with requital royal and profuse 
I vsdll outsoar thee ; this white woman's hand 
Shall cast thee Hengist's pardon for thy deeds 
Of guilty fame ; this smooth and purple cheek 
Smile thee fair honours in Caer Merddhyn's 
court." 

" Pardon, and honour. Lady ' one alone 
Jealous prerogative of pardon holds 
O'er Samor's soul, the universal God ! 
Caer Merddhyn's honours ! to fall'n Vortigern 
To be install'd prime flatterer, meekly laud 
The bounteous-hearted monarch, who cast off" 
His throne, his people, and his fame, and thought 
For bride so fair the dowry all too poor." 

No wrath, but brighter joy the Lady's cheek 
Emblazon' d ; "Why should slight and tinsel 

ties 
Of blood and birthplace hold asunder hearts 
Kindred in grandeur ? thou art brave and free. 
And brave and free is Hengist ; why disdains 
Valour to mate with valour, might with might?" 
" Valour beneath the sun goes proudly forth ; 
And in the cloudy battle's van affronts 
His hanberk'd foe, but folds not secret steel 
Under the mild and festal robe of peace, 



Nor creeps with midnight stealth on the weak 

sleep 
Of women and soft infants." — Then appear'd 
Tears in her haughty eyes, tears beautiful. 
For drops of shame they were for those black 

crimes 
That fleck'd and dimm'd her father's blaze of 

fame. 
Still paused not the Avenger. — " Did my God 
Did Britain claim the offering, I dare hope 
Yet I could rend from this worn heart away 
Its pleasant lust of vengeance: private wrongs 
Are but thin drops in my full tide of hate ; 
But all my country's injuries, all my God's 
Concentrate in the mighty passion flood. 
My life, my soul, my being; we must be, 
I and thy father, through all space.of time. 
Even to the end, Destroyer or Destroy'd." 

" Harsh and Implacable ! yet be not thou 
Discourteous : wilt thou to Caer Merddhyn 

come. 
An honour'd guest, in freedom to depart 
When, where thou wilt, thy pledge my royai 

faith?" 

" A Saxon's faith !" burst bitter from his lips. 
He check'd the upbraiding tone. " If fraud and 

sin 
In such a lovely temple hold their shrine, 
It were not strange did fiends of darkness dwell 
Within yon beauteous sun!" But she witb 

smile 
Mild as May morning on a violet bank, 
"Why stay'st thou? can the Unconquerable 

fear—?" 
" Fear, Lady ! fear and I are strangers now." 
" What wondrous spell," pursued her playftj 

mirth, 
" So steels thee ?" — " One most simple and nio&> 

strong, 
A calm proud conscience, and a faith in God." 

Then sate he by the Lady's side ; set forth 
Upon its dancing voyage down the tide 
The bark obeisant to its dashing oars. 
But those gay rowers veering with the wind 
Of soft court favour, 'gan with subtle joy 
And cold factitious transport hail again 
Their gentle peer, their old and honour'd friend. 
But with a glance the imperial lady froze 
To silence their smooth-lying lips, nor brook'd 
Idle intrusion on her rapturous feast. 
Deep drank she in the majesty and pomp, 
Wherewith instinct the Avenger moved and 

spake. 
And what high beauty from heroic soul 
Emanates on the outward shape, nor pall'd 
On her insatiate appetite the joy ; 
Till that commercing deep of stately thoughte^ 
Proud admiration, and intense delight 
In what is heart-subliming, towering, grand, 
Regenerate from the trance that bathed her 

sense. 
Sprang up a fiery passion, o'er her flow'd 
Secret the intoxicating ecstasy. 
Love, dangerous, deep, intolerable love. 



496 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



What beauteous seeming and magnificent, 
Weareth that brilUant sin ? now not o'er her 
Came it in melting languor, soft and bland, 
But like her own high nature, eminent, 
Disdainful, and elate, allied to all 
That beautified, that glorified, and seem'd 
Mysterious union of upsoaring spirits. 
Wedding of lofty thoughts with lofty thoughts, 
And the fine joy of being to this earth 
A thing of wonder : and as floats the air 
Clear, white, and stainless in the highest heavens, 
Seem'd from its exaltation fresh and pure, 
Above all taint her amorous madness rose. 
Had it seem'd love, her very pride had quell'd 
The unplumed fantasy, her inbred scorn 
Warr'd on the young infirmity, but now 
Upon her soul's bold crest, it planted high 
Its banner of dominion, and she hail'd 
Its coming as a guest of pomp and power. 

But, though o'er all her features mantling 
spread 
A vivid restlessness, a lustrous glow, 
A deepening purple, though her eye indulged 
Richer delirium, though her languid breath 
Came with a throb and struggled from her heart, 
Yet in that noble kindness that disdains 
With greedy and suspicious gaze to search 
The sin that may be, rather chastening all 
With his own native purity, serene 
The Warrior sate. The placid gliding bark 
With motion like to stillness, flowing on, 
Where with green diadem of woods above, 
Beneath the white breadth of the expanding 

stream, 
€aer Merddhyn in the liquid noontide rose. 

Fair rose Caer Merddhyn, rose her towery 
height 
The air enriching, nor mis-seem'd a King 
Such stately dwelHng; populous hersli e's. 
And throng'd with human faces, but o'er all 
A lassitude and heavy sadness hung, 
Blankness of looks and weariness of hearts, 
And listlessness of motion faltering on. 
With all the pomps, the luxuries of life, 
It seem'd a city of the dead. The ihapes, 
The steps of men were there, but soul and spirit. 
And stirring energy, and vivid mind. 
Passion and earnestness in torpor slept, 
The cold blood stagnates in the drowsy veins. 
Alike all feelings lazy languor seal'd ; 
To still them, not delight, the mothers held 
Their infants, as the radiant Queen past on; 
But even in them the laughing spring of joy 
Was dead, and dry, and frozen. — " Oh, high 

. God! 
(So spake the Wanderer in his secret sotil) 
Hath tyranny such bleak and withering power 
Man's heavenly essence to embrute, and thou, 
Once princely Vortigern, the tyrant thou !" — 

Worse sight '. worse shame ! they reach the 
broad hill's brow, 
Where in its royalty the palace look'd 
Awe on its vassal city ; there, even there, 
On that high threshold, armed Saxon files 



From the weak people fenced the weaker King. 
But through that legion hateful and accurst 
Onward the Avenger that bright Lady's hand 
Led, as the Sibyl sage the Love-queen's son 
Calm through the doleful regions of the dead. 

Within the hall with royal banners hung. 
And shields of royal blazon, royal arms. 
Least royal he, sate Vortigern ; deep thought 
And miserable on his faded brow 
Traced its bleak fines ; before him ghttering lay 
The crown of Britain, which his eye perused 
With a sick sadness, as each gem were full 
Of woeful ruminations, blank remorse ; 
And as bad Angels loathe, yet upward watch, 
Heaven's Sun, bright type of their once radiant 

state. 
Even so in bitterness that fallen King, 
Painfully banqueting on self-reproach, 
A drear remembrance of lost grandeurs drew 
From that fair ring, and cursed its blaze that 

flash' d 
Past splendours o'er the darkness of his soul. 
And memory from what height to what depth 

sunk , 
He welters in the abyss of shame profound. 
Beside him o'er his harp Aneurin bow'd. 
The white -hair' d Bard, sole faithful he, sole 

friend ; 
For nnnds of poets from their own high sphere 
Look down on earth's distinctions, high and 

low, 
Sunken or soaring, as the equal sun 
Sheds light along the vale and mountain's brow. 
He in the hall of feasting who fast seal'd 
The treasures of his harmony, now pours 
Into the wounded heart his syrups sweet, 
And laps it in the silken folds of sound. 
But even along his strings the infectious grief 
Hath crept, and wither'd up the wantonness 
And lost in wayward wanderings of despair 
Stray the vague tones ; anon bursts full and free 
A start, a swell of pride, then sinks away 
Involuntary to such doleful fall, 
Misery so musical, its languid breath 
Feeds, while it softens the deep-rooted woe. 
Such melodies at tragic midnight heard 
'Mid a deserted city, gliding o'er 
The deep green moss of tower and fane o'er- 

thrown. 
Had seem'd immortal sorrows in the air, 
O'er man's inconstant grandeurs. Sad such 

wreck, 
More sad, more worthy Angels woe the waste 
And desolation of a noble mind. 
High fertile faculties run wild and rank. 
Bright fiery qualities in darkness slaked. 
That liquid intercourse of grief broke ofT, 
Thus spake the King — " Who thus unbidden 

bursts 
On kingly solitude ? why ask I thee ? 
No brow between the Scot and Southern sea 
Beareth such gallant insolence abroad. 
But Samor, the wild Wanderer, the denounced, 
The desperate ! Art thou here to stun mine ears 
With ' Vortigern is abject, lost, disgraced ?' 
'Tis well that with thee comes my bright excuse, 
My poverty's rich treasure, my night's star, 



SAMOR. 



497 



Beauteous Rowena." — Joy seem'd his, but yet 

Was effort and was struggle in that joy, 

The clinging of a desperate soul to what 

It would delight in, but did not delight. 

The striving of a barren heart to force 

The perish'd bloom of pleasure. — " King, I come 

To put a spell upon thee, conjure up 

Thy valour from its tomb within thy breast. 

To rend the adamant that trammels fast 

Thy strength of soul. By yon bright glaive that 

smote, 
By Esk's wild bank, beneath his father's shield, 
The royal Caledonian's Son; yon flag, 
That, when by fated Aries rash Britain lost 
Her wild bright hazard for imperial state, 
Clouding the car of adverse victory shook 
Untarnish'd in the sun its blazon broad, 
Nor stoop'd though all was fallen ; by yon rich 

crown 
Whereon when flow'd the holy oil, this isle 
From all her seas her gratulant acclaim 
Sent up, and o'ercast heaven's vault with joy ; 
By Vortigern, the great, the brave, the wise I" — 
" Brave ! wise ! ay, that it is. The veriest 

wretch 
That from base birth-place to his baser grave. 
Creeps with his fellow reptiles, that ne'er knew 
What luxury 'tis, what loftiness to soar. 
And with one soul to wield a host of souls 
In free subjection, oh that fireless dust, 
Clay uninform'd that only lives to die, 
That is to me a God : to me whose curse. 
And brand, and mock it is to have been great — 
And be — oh ! Samor, Samor, I was King, 
King of this spacious, rich, and glorious isle, 
And thou, and such as thou, ray regal state 
Didst vassal; nov^, but now an eye may trace 
The circuit of my realm, a shepherd's boy 
Count my thin people, like his mountain flock." 

'■ Oh, Monarch, ill must be atoned by good, 
And to repentant deeds of mightiest fame 
Heaven can upraise the farthest sunken. Power 
Fails not the aspirant v/ill. I knew thee once 
A being of those arduous energies, 
Strong aspirations, graspings undefined, 
Tumultuous thirsts and passions, that of man 
Make Fiend or Angel." — "True, too true, but 

thou 
Hast seized the Seraph's air-plumed wings, and I 
The Demon's vans of darkness. Had all fallen, 
All perished, one wide ignominy swept 
Princes and Lords and People, I had found 
A forlorn comfort in the general vs'reck ; 
But in its curst sublimity thy fame 
Obtrudes its radiant presence, and makes groan 
This ruin of a Monarch." — " Rare it is. 
Oil King, in Fame's rich galaxy to shine 
Wii,h steadfast blaze unwithering, but to dawn 
FrDm darkness, scatter off the black eclipse 
That veils the wither'd lustre, this most rare, 
Maketh man's soul an everlasting fire 
Worthy the God that hung the heavens with 

light; 
'Tis hard for downcast spirit to o'erleap 
Ruin's sad barriers, but Heaven's angels drop 
Soit dews beneath his burning feet, his flight 
Imp with strong plumes ; his coming doth adorn 
63 



The earth he moves on; till Remorse abash'd 
Before the orient glories fades and flies." 

" Peace! peace ! thou canst not see what cold 

within 
Lies like a palsy on the flagging powers, 
Makes me a thin and shrinking reed, the sport 
Of every lazy wind, the shape, the Ufe, 
The woe, without the faculties of man : 
Shame, Shame. — Oh, turn thy lofty brow av/ay. 
Heavy it hangs o'er me like loosen'd crag 
Over the mountain traveller — I endure. 
Of all this nation, the curse-wrinkled hps, 
Out-pointed fingers, ribald jests, coarse scorns. 
Men that have lick'd the dust beneath my feet. 
Worn their tame faces by the mould of mine, 
Them, to confront even them." — Unkingly tears 
Choked the full utterance, met his eye the glance 
Of that proud Queen, who, all unmark'd, drank in 
That passionate discourse, from her contempt. 
Though far below his own, he shrimk, and 

v;rought 
To a brief pride his wan dejected mien. 
" Here is my throne, my kingdom in this breast, 
My diadem the wealth of light that shines 
From yon fair brow upon me." — Stronger pain 
Burst in upon the infant pride : forth fled 
The Monarch, happy could he fly himself 
Him follow'd that old Bard. 'Tis vain, all vain, 
(Thus spake the high Avenger.) "Beauteous 

Queen, 
I claim thy faith, and part." — " So swift, so soon. 
Our festal cheer untasted, welcome cup 
Uncrown'd ?" — "Fair Queen, in the pellucid 

stream 
My beverage dances ; the coarse mountain boor 
Shares his hard fare with me ; the hand that feasts 
The winged wanderers of the air, feasts me." 
With hps in act of speech apart, the Queen., 
As to her will her tongue disdainful scorn'd 
Allegiance, chain'd in silence stood again, 
Twice she essay'd to speak, twice o'er her shame 
Swept his petrific hand, and rosy fire 
O'er face and neck and forehead flush'd, till 

shrunk 
From that strong heat the eye, and down on earth 
Settled its close -fringed orb ; with pressure soft 
Her blushing fingers his bronzed hand embraced. 

" Here in this palace is my rule, this land 
Is mine by my prevaiUng power : wouldst thou 
Of this high seat, this realm be lord ?— Why starts 
Unwonted colour to thy cheek? why shrinks 
Into its sphere thine eye ? Said I this soul. 
And what soft beauty ghtters in this shape, 
Had it appall'd thee?"— Eagerly she grasp'd 
The hand she held, as though from thence to 

wring 
A swift reply, yet gazed upon the earth, 
As wistful 'neath its darkness she might shrink 
From her own shame. Blank wonder Samor's 

brow 
To living stone congeal'd — " This then the close 
To all thy lavish love of Vortigern ! ' ' 

" My love ! he was a King, upon his brow 
The beauty of a royal crown, his height 
Dominion, like a precious mantle, dipt 



498 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



In heaven's pure light array'd, and o'er him flung 
Transcendent grandeur; above all he stood, 
And I by such fond splendours woo'd and won, 
Took seat upon his eminence ; a plant 
To spread, and mantle an imperial throne, 
Not like tame ivy round a ruin creep, 
Or wreathe the tomb of royalty. His pride 
I wedded, not his shame ; bats may not build 
With the hght-loving lark. He, he himself 
By self-abasement has divorced me, set 
Distance between us wide and far as heaven 
From the black pit of infamy." — "High Queen, 
What seest thou in this bleak and batter'd brow. 
These rough scathed limbs, this wan and sunken 

face 
With misery's rugged furrows deeply plough' d 
To dazzle or dehght ? Lone outcast I, 
"Friendless, but daily, nightly by fierce foes 
Beset and hunted hke a loathsome brute ; 
Thy nation's mothers vent all hate on me. 
Link with a scathing curse no name but mine. 
Oh, what wouldst thou and softness with a life 
Lilie mine so dreary, desperate, dark, and 

fierce ?" 

" Oh, 'tis because all hate thee, that I love, 
Because all dread thee, I would mate with thee ; 
Thy miseries, thy dangers deeper plunge 
My soul in passion, that alone thou walk'st 
Smote at by every arm, yet struck by none, 
That mastery of thy single soul holds down 
The Saxon's mounting empire, clips its wings 
Rapacious and wide-shadowing, that thy fame 
Like a rich rainbow cloud, sails on through air, 
To mortal grasp impalpable, to sight 
In lonely brilliance manifest ; my soul 
To that thy airy chariot would aspire. 
And dazzle by thy side, and daunt the world." — 

" Loose and unrighteous to thy lawful Lord, 
Yet wouldst thou poison with adulterous shame 
Its spotless lustre, its pure white defile, 
And clog with guilt its vaunted wheels." — "Guilt! 

Guilt ! 
Ah, now I know why mme eye shrunk from 

thine. 
Why sought the base earth, why brook'd not my 

tongue 
The motions of my will — but we — shrink we ? 
The lofty are their own high law ; dull codes. 
Cold customs, trammel but the base ; our sins 
Shall be the wanderings of the meteor fire. 
More wonder' d than the regular calm stars : 
Our acting shall ennoble, what tame tongues 
Falter at even in word ; opinions, hues 
Shall at our haughty bidding shift and change, 
And what we do, shall therefore be call'd great. 
Yes, yes, I feel thy shrinking hand, I see 
White-hpp'd abhorrence quivering in thy mien 
As at some loathsome viper. Woe, oh woe 
To him that tramples on the viper's wrath." — 
Then shook she back her golden hair, away 
Cast his cold hand. — " Ho, Saxons at the gate. 
Ho, Saxons, to your injured Queen !" The hall 
Sudden was walled with fiery arms and spears 
Bickering fierce menace ; numerous, swift, and 

strong, 
As when old Cadmus by clear Dirce spread 



That dangerous seed uncouth, long, wide, and 

bright 
Under the fatal ploughshare leap'd to life. 
To havoc the wild harvest, and shook up 
Its bearded grim fertihty of death. 
But then his sword the Avenger grasp' d, and 

cried, 
" Twice have I trusted Saxon faith, and twice 
Beneath my feet the smooth fair ice hath burst 
Its glassy treachery : once this arm redeem' d 
The infatuate blindness. Saxons, I am he, 
Who with his single strength on Ambri plain 
Scared your hot massacre, your proudest necks 
Strew'd for his pavement of retreat, ye see 
Mine arm unwither'd, my unbroken sword." 

But they sprung onward; that bright Lady's 

brow 
Awful dehght absorb'd the while, she moved 
Before their wrath, her arm's high sway waved 

back 
Their fury from her presence. Swift they came, 
Swift they departed ; silence down the walls 
Crept o'er the banners broad, and pendent 

shields. 

She look'd on Samor, all his pride was hers, 
She look'd on Samor, all that pride was quench'd 
In exquisite mild transport ; at his feet 
The Queen, the haughty, the disdainful fell. 
Her fine fair hair lay floating on the earth ; 
Her round arms clung beseeching to his knees. 

" A curse upon me, that my wilful heart 
'Gainst head so brave, so noble, dream'd of wrath, 
Of danger and rude menace. What I did, 
I know not ; what I said, it pleased not thee ; 
Enough, 'twas base, 'twas criminal, 'twas false. 
Oh Chief! when we would compass wild desires, 
Words ahen to the heart start up, yet seem 
Most strong persuasion. ; of all serpents, scorn 
Stings to worse frenzy, worst a woman's soul. 
Forget, all, all forget, but one soft word, 
And that I charge thee, by thy rescued life. 
Forget not." — " Lady, were I rich in love, 
As yon full Sun in light, I could not spare 
A beam upon a Saxon. Now, but now 
The fountains of my heart are dry, the stock 
Where fresh and rich my green affections bloom'd, 
Is wither'd to the root ; hard, doleful, dead. 
My breast's impassive iron scatters off" 
All melting blandishments, all soft delights, 
As the waved banner the thin morning dews. 
With one harsh discord to consummate all ; 
Thou art thy Father's daughter." — She arose 
In miserable calmness resolute. 
She took his hand, she led him forth, beneath 
The murky scowling of those Saxons stern. 
Whose angry wonder scarce herself controll'd : 
Gave one fond lingering pressure, and but one. 
Then watch'd him through the city, up the vale, 
If gazing with such emptiness of eye 
Were watching, which his distance seem'd to 

freeze 
Gradual to hollower wanness ; down her arms 
Hung, only that she stood and faintly breathed, 
Pulse, motion, sense, life, all seem'd fled with 
him. 



SAMOR. 



499 



Sudden above her, the mild air 'gan waft 
Wild fiery sounds, like those of battle morn 
Which champing war-steed's neigh, and lance's 

rush. 
Impatient answers. On the palace top 
Aneurin in his bardic glory stood ; 
The sunlight on his old prophetic brow 
Flash' d strong, yet dazzled not, his long white 

locks 
Stream' d back upon his azure robe, like rack 
O'er heaven's unclouded blue, his pale thin hand 
With strength of mounting phrenzy launch'd 

abroad 
The war-song of Cassivelan : glad sounds 
To that tranced queen, for Samor's hastier port 
Deliberate grandeur slacken'd, he look'd back. 
Proud gratitude for that wild flattery. — " All, 
All in one wide conspiracy (so spake 
Rowena's bitter joy,) thee, Only thee 
To glorify. Oh, were man mute, this earth 
Would leap to utterance of thy fame, the winds 
Find voices eloquent, the streams, the stones, 
To lofty music burst of thy renown." 

Slowly retired the Queen; she call'd around 
Her slaves, her handmaids ; arrogant their looks 
Seem'd to confront her, eyes aye wont to shrink 
Before her gaze, now seem'd to pry and pierce 
Her deepest soul's recesses; and she blush'd 
Even in her plenitude of scorn. They stood 
Trembling before her wayward mood, yet seem'd 
Mockeries their tremors ; solitade she sought, 
Yet solitude found none, things senseless took 
Stern cognizance of all her acts, her thoughts ! 
Eyes hung the empty walls, weak laughing 

sounds 
Of triumph o'er her shame, pervaded wide 
The tranquil air, all with herself at league 
Shook scorns upon herself. Dim evening falls 
O'er earth and sky, slow flits the shadowy night. 
" Slaves there !" she cried, " my steed ! alone I 

ride." 
She, wont to find her every look a law, 
Now almost wonders all so swift obey. 

The moon's white sickle tenderly array' d 
With dubious lustre the grey heavens ; scarce 

tinged 
The dew-webs, whiten'd not the yellow crown 
Of the unwaving forest ; ignorant. 
Or with feign'd ignorance 'guiling even herself. 
Long upon Samor's track the Lady rides. 

'Tis not a stag that couches on the heath ; 
Hope on her dim cheek brightens, from her steed 
Soft she dismounts, she ruffles not the fern, 
The moss springs printless up beneath her feet, 
So light her gliding to that slumbering man. 
She knows him, she starts back. — " Oh, came I 

here. 
Lost and abased, him, only him to seek. 
That answers mine immodest heart with flight. 
With scorn, perchance with hate ! yet wonderous 

he, 
Wonderous in rest as action ! Sleep'st thou calm. 
While numberless as these brown heath-spikes 

rise 
Legions of spears around thee, for thy blood 



Leagued in one furious thirst ? Unwise and rash'. 
To-night thou slumber' st not unguarded, sleep; 
And if Rowena mingle with thy dreams. 
Sleep calmly, breathingly as now ! He wakes— 
Oh, hateful even in slumber that harsh name 
Grates on his sense." — His eyes unfold, nor start. 
So soft the vision ; wonder's self is calm. 
And quaffs it in with mild unshrinking gaze. 
Her long bright hair, like threads of silver streak 
The moonlight, her fair forehead's marble arch 
Wild joyous fearfulness, ecstatic doubt. 
Bathe with the dewiness of melting snow, 
Ere yet unblanch'd its stainless glitter pure. 
Oh, soft and slow that melody of mien 
Steals o'er the slumberer, ere the reason woke, ' 
The sense was drunken, one hand folded hers 
That answer'd not its pressure, nor withdrew. 
Tremulous, yet motionless: his rising head 
Found on her other arm such pillowing soft, 
As the fond ringdove on its mate's smooth down. 
They spake not, moved not. 'Tis the noon of 

night, 
Hour known to Samor not by sign or sound 
Of man's wise art to mark the fleeting time, 
Nor changing of the starry heavens ; but e'er 
By motion of the secret soul, by calm 
Habitual sliding into the soothed heart, 
Distinct from turbulent day and weary eve, 
Emeric's own hour, her consecrated spot 
In his life's wilderness. She comes, she comes. 
The clouds have dropt her from their silvery folds j 
The mild air wafts her, the rank earth impiire 
Stainless she skims, distrust, doubt, fear, noplace 
Find in the sinless candour of her mien. 
In languid soft security she melts 
On Samor's fever'd soul, she fills his sense, 
Her softness like the nightingale's first notes 
After rude evening, o'er his passion steals : 
He cast not off Rowena's hand, it fell 
As from a dead man's grasp ; slow rose his head 
From its fair zone, as from a bank of snow 
The winter traveller, by its smoothness guiled 
Almost to deathful s^eep ; he dares not now 
Welcome that heavenly visitant, nor could, 
Nor would he her mild rescue bid depart. 
Nor dares he now with chill abhorrence shrink 
From that impassion'd Lady ; on his lips 
Clung wretched, pale, beseechingness, that frameci 
Nor word nor sound. But time for thought in her 
Gave time for shame, for struggling pride gave 

time. 
"Thou deem'st me loose, wild, wanton, deem'st 

me come 
To lure thee with light sweets of lawless love, 
Hunting mine own shame through the midnight 

woods. 
Oh false, all false. — How thee shall I persuade, 
Ay me ! that scarce persuade myself, 'twas 

chance, 
'Twas fate, 'twas ministration of bad spirits, 
That led me thoughtless, hopeless — did I say 
Hopeless ? yet scorn not thou, the lightest won 
Are oft best won. Oh why, ere now so mild, 
So gentle, why so stern, so ghastly still?" 
" Thou lovest my pride, my honour, my renown ; 
Now, Qeeen Rowena, mayst thou do a deed 
Shall make my pride thine own, make theo my 

fount 



500 



HENRY HART MILMA.N. 



Of honour, all my noontide of renown j 

On thee in all its golden brilliance shine ; | 

And if henceforth man's voice cry out, High | 

deeds 
Hath Saraor's arm achieved, thy heart shall 

bound i 

And thy lips answer, ' Mine ! all mine !' and I \ 
Will bless thee, thank thee, praise thee for that 

truth." I 

I 

O'er proud Rowena past his solemn voice i 

Tremendously delightful, as the sound ] 

Of thunder over Jove's bolt-minist'ring bird, ~ ! 
That sternly rocks on th' agitated air. 
"Speak, speak; 'tis hours, 'tis years until 'tis 

done." 
Return'd one brief, one powerful word — "De- 
part." 
She struggled yet to wear the lofty light 
That flush' d her brow ; she struggled, and she 

fell, 
Her white arms round his neck. Light as the 

breeze 
Pass'd over his her cheek. Then back 
She started, seized her courser's rein; far, far 
The rocks gave answer to its trampHng hoofs. 

To sohtude, to peace, ah, not to peace) 
Was Sarnor left; large dewy beads distil 
From his full brow, as from the forest leaves 
The sunny icicle: fierce, merciless, 
Relentless inquest o'er himself he holds. 
In him a sin in thought is sin in deed. 

"And I, that on the frantic waxen wings 
Of mine own arrogance, have deem'd my soul 
Kindred and heritor of that rich bliss 
That bathes the Angels' radiant wings in strength; 
That wander'd o'er this sublunary wild 
As with a chartered scorn, that m.ix'd with men 
But in disdainful mastery to o'er-rule 
Their dim and wavering destinies, that took 
With noble violence admiring earth, 
O'er me hath passion wound her silken nets ; 
And that soft Dalila, lascivious sin. 
Shorn my full honours. Now, who clothed my 

steps 
With darkness, dread, and danger, hung my arms 
With lightning, kept at bay the envious death 
That feasts upon the famous of mankind ; 
God, God abandons me. So farewell pride, 
And with pride farewell strength, the burning 

hope. 
Glad agonies, brave bliss of holy war, 
Transports of trampling on ray country's foes, 
And all the beauty, majesty, renown, 
Vengeance, of thy triumphal state. Ye too, 
Farewell, soft midnights, dehcate regards 
Fix'd on me from fond eyes yet bright from 

heaven, 
Mild agitations of the purer sense. 
Fresh bloomings of my faded joys, ye dreams 
Lovelier than actual bliss, as heaven than earth, 
Emeric abandons me. For how can snow 
Drop on his foul earth stainless ? how canst thou 
Visit unsullied thy sad shrine defiled. 
Or beam upon this lust-benighted heart ? 
Oh never felt before, the fear to front 



Mine own past life, the ignoble shame that 

bums 
At human sight, and memory that ne'er sleeps ; 
Heart-sickening at its own deformities, 
A miserable welcome bid I ye ; 
Come, dismal comforters, faint-footed guides. 
Teach me the hate of life, the dread of death." 

And Samor wander'd on, not now with scope 
Resolved, and steady purpose that absorb'd 
And fixed on one stern centre all his soul, 
True as the arrow to its mark. Now where. 
Whither, is all indifferent ; he pursues 
The wildering of the forest track, the brook 
Winding its lucid error : two sad days 
And chance hath led him back to Wye's green 
bank. 

Sudden before him swept in gallant pack. 
Fleet hounds, whose keen scent quaff'd the 

morning dews. 
Sole on their track a noble huntsman bow'd 
O'er his steed's high-curved neck. But when he 

saw 
Samor, that scarce his coming mark'd or heard, 
He vaulted from his uncheck'd steed so fleet, 
The courser seem'd to feel it not, but on 
Went stately bounding down the glen. But he 
Unslung his bugle horn, his hunting-spear 
Cast to the winds, and held his burnish'd sword 
To heaven, as though to paragon its light. 

" Oh, thunderer Thor, but one bold prayer of 
mine 
E'er scaled thy heavens, and that, munificent, 
I thank thee for thy granting. Samor now, 
Now Christian, now baptized in German blood; 
Avenger, we are met, and ere we part. 
Earth must be ruddier with some blood of ours." 

" Noble Argantyr, deem not thou unknown 
Thy name, thy presence, nor forgot, how thou. 
When Murther quaff'd his glut on Ambri plain, 
Didst hold thy jealous steel aloft, lest stain 
From gore by treason shed, should dim its gleam ; 
And when I burst my iron toils, and won 
My dangerous safety, how indignant joy 
Stood bathing thy stern brow. Brave Anglian, 

thou. 
But thou, of German race, to faint sloth chill'st 
My sword's quick wrath." — " What, Samor out 

of love 
With strife, with music of conflicting steel? 
Hath Abisa's pale blood so quench' d his fire ? 
Were't not I now could force my glorious will, 
Yea, I could sue thee, Briton, for the joy. 
Thou wilt not credit, air hath been defiled 
With creeping whispers cold, that I, I shrunk 
To second in his dangers that brave boy. 
As though Argantyr would partake a foe, 
And with division spiritless and base. 
Mete out his province in one man to slay. 
Hear ; ' Well the famous Anglian won his half 
Of that great conquest!' But I have thee now 
Whole, undivided, now, or man, or more. 
If aught be mortal in thee, guard that spot. 
My steel will search it." — "Samor is not now 
As Samor was, but knows not yet to scorn 



SAMOR, 



50! 



Such brave allurements." Forth his anlace 

flash'd, 
But not as wont, uplooks he to the sky; 
He thinks not now, oh, if I fall, float near, 
My Emeric, that no Angel's voice but thine 
Welcome thy Samor to his opening heaven : 
And if I vanquish, Britain and the Lord^ 
Take to your hecatomb one Saxon more. 

But on Argantyr sprung, as wanton boy 
To the cool health of summer streamlet pure : 
Around, above, beneath his winged sword 
Leaps in its fiery joy, red, fierce and far | 

As from a midnight furnace start the sparks. 
As brazen statue on proud palace top, 
Shakes off the pelting tempest, so endured 
Samor, but not in patient hope austere 
Of victory; but habitual skill and power 
Protracting long the cold indifferent strife ; 
Till twice that sword that in its downward sweep 
Flash'd the white sunlight, cloudy rose and dim 
With ominous purple-, then his nature burst 
Its languid bonds, not front alone to front ; 
But soul to soul the riot of the fight 
They mingle, like to giddy chariot wheels 
The whirling of their swords, as fierce the din 
Of buckler brast, helm riven, and breastplate 

cloven. 
As when the polar wind the ice-field rends. 
Such nobleness sublime of hideous fight 
From Ilion's towers her floating mantled' dames 
Saw not; nor Thebes, when Capaneus call'd 

down 
Jove's thunder, and disdain'd its fall; nor pride 
Of later Bai-ds, when mad Orlando met 
On that frail bridge the giant Sarzan king, 
And with him in the boiUng flood dash'd down. 
Till that fond eagerness, that brave delight 
O'erpower'd frail nature, breathless each, and 

each 
Careless, yet conscious of deep trenching wounds, 
For admiration paused, for hope, for power 
To satiate the unwearying strong desire. 

Lo, the far hills Argantyr first descried 
Radiant with spearmen, and he cried, " Away, 
'Tis Hengist with his bloody bands, I know 
The motion of his crest ; brave Chief, away." 
" Away 1 and leave Argantyr here to boast 
Samor hath fled him !" — " Oh, we meet again ; 
Thou art a quarry for the Gods, base lance 
Must ne'er vaunt blood of thine. Argantyr spares 
But for himself such noble game. Still here ! 
Froward and furious, if thou'iieedst must die, 
Why so must I ; fell Hengist will not spare 
An inch of quivering life on all thy limbs. 
And I with such a jealous lust pursue 
A noble conquest o'er thee, I must shield 
Thy life with mine, for my peculiar fame ; 
Freely mine own death on the hazard cast 
For such a precious stake as slaying thee." 

As through dusk twilight stolen, love-breath- 
less maid 
For interchange of gentle vows, by noise 
Startled of envious footstep, chides away 
Her lingering youih. yet for his lingering loves, 



Till her fond force hath driven him from her side ; 
So earnest the brave Anglian sued to flight 
Reluctant Samor ; o'er his sword-hilt bow'd, 
Stood sorrowing for the wounds himself had 

made, 
That marr'd his speedier flight. Anon approach'd 
Hengist, encircled by his state of spears. 
And bright Rowena by his side. " But now 
Thy steed along our camp rush'd masterless, 
Therefore we seek thee, Anglian. How ! thou 

bleedst ! 
And strange ! thy foeman bites not the red earth. 
What might hath scathless met Argantyr's steel ?' ' 

"He, gasp'd he here in death, thy soul would 
dance. 
The Wanderer !" — "He ! he wars but on soft 

boys. 
He dares not front Argantyr." — False, 'tis 

false !" 
Burst from Rowena ; " he dares deeds our Gods 
Had shrunk from (Hengist' s cloudy brow she 

mark'd,) 
Or whence his proud claim to my father's hate ?" 
" Where hath the Recreant fled ! Pursue ! pur- 
sue ! ' ' 
Cried Hengist. "Hast thou wings to cleave the 

air ? 
Or windest the deep bosom of the earth. 
Thou mayst o'ertake. Yet Samor is not now," 
He said, " as Samor was; were Samor more, 
Earth and Argantyr had been wed erenow." 

So spake the Anglian ; leap'd Rowena' s heart 
In hope, in shame, in anguish, in dehght. 
" Oh, hath my softness sunk so deep to change 
Thy steadfast nature, yet thus changed, thy 

might 
Wrests honour from thy foeman's lips." — " Oh 

now," 
Laughing in baffled bitterness, exclaim'd 
The Saxon King, ",now weave we softer nets 
To toil this dangerous Wanderer. What say'st 

thou. 
Fair-eyed Rowena, now thou hast cast off 
Thy fond, thy lovesick Vortigern ? perchance 
The sunshine of thy beauty might melt down 
This savage to a tame submissive slave." 

Rowena, whose proud look with beauteous awe 
Smote her beholders, wore her loveliness 
As though she gloried in its power ; now close - 
Crowded o'er all her face her mantle's folds, 
That ill conceal'd the purple fire wiihin. 
Then forward past they lo the Saxon camp. 

But far by Wye's green marge had Samor fled. 
Till now the ebbing blood with short quick throb 
Beat at his heart, his languid feet were clogg'd 
With the thick forest leaves, the keen air search'd 
With a cold thrill his wounds. He falls, scarce 

sobs; 
" Merciful God, on this in all my life 
The sole, the single day I would not die." 
Then faint, and sickly, an oppressive rest 
Seal'd sight and sense. When sleep fell on him, 

eve 



502 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



Was gathering fast, but when he woke, morn 

shot 
From the grey east her faint pellucid light. 
His blood was staunch'd, a soothing coolness lay 
On his mild wounds, the rude arch of the boughs 
Seem'd woven with officious care to veil 
The bright Sun from his eyehds ; the dry leaves 
Were gather' d round him, like a feathery couch. 
He lay and listen' d, a soft step approach' d 
Light as the wren along the unshaking spray, 
And o'er him lean'd a maiden pale, yet blithe 
With tinge of joy, that settled hue. — " Is't thou. 
Gentle Myfanwy ?" "Blessings on thy waking ; 
I long'd to tell thee what sweet dreams have 

soothed 
My sorrow since we parted ; in my sleep 
My parents came, and with them that fond youth. 
And they smiled on him kindly. Think'st thou 

God 
Can have such mercy on sins dark as mine !" 
■'' God's plenteous mercy on thee for thy care 
Of me, sweet maiden." — " Pardon me, oh thou. 
Heaven pardon me, when first I saw thee cold. 
Helpless, and bleeding, evil thoughts arose 
Of my poor Abisa's untimely death." 

But deeper meditation Samor's mind 
Beset. " Almighty, truly thou ordain'st 
Wisdom from baby lips ; what moral high 
Breathes in this simple maid's light-hearted 

smiles ! 
And I, for wisdom famed, for pride of mind, 
Insulted with weak doubts thy infinite, 

ble goodness; she so soft, 
So delicate, so sinful and so sad, 
Springs on her airy plumes of hope to thee. 
Oh, were mine guilt of act not thought, the stain 
Thy fount of living mercy might efface." 
He prest a kiss upon her cheek so pure 
Even Abisa had granted it. " Farewell, 
My kind preserver, cherish thou thy hope, 
As 'twere an infant fondling on thy breast." 
And fresh with hope, like gay stag newly bathed. 
Forth on his voyage lone the Avenger past. 



BOOK VIIL 



His path is 'mid the Cambrian mountains 

wild ; 
The many fountains that well wandering down 
Plinlimmon's huge round side their murmurs 

smooth 
Float round him ; Idris, that like warrior old 
His batter'd and fantastic helmet rears. 
Scattering the elements' wrath, frowns o'er his 

way 
A broad irregular duskiness. Aloof 
Snowdon, the triple-headed giant, soars, 
Clouds rolling half-way down his rugged sides. 

Slow as he trod amid their dizzy heights, 
Their silences and dimly mingling sounds, 
Rushing of torrents, roar of prison'd winds; 
O'er all his wounded soul flow'd strength, and 

pride, 
-And hardihood; again his front soar'd up 



To commerce with the skies, and frank and bold 
His majesty of step his rugged path 
Imprinted. So in old poetic faith 
Hyperion from his native Delian bowers, 
'Mid the rich music of those sisters nine, 
Walk'd the bright heights of Helicon, and shook 
His forehead's clustering glories wide, and flush'd 
The smoothness of his fair immortal face 
With purple Godhead. Whence, ye mountaina, 

whence 
The spirit that within your secret caves 
Holds kindred with man's soul? Is't that your 

pomp 
Of exaltation, your aerial crowns 
In their heaven-scaling rivalry cast forth 
Bold sympathies of loftiness, and scorn 
Contagious ? or in that your purer air. 
Where fresh and virgin from its golden fount, 
Lies the fine light at morning, or at eve 
Melts upward and resolves itself from earth, 
And with its last clear trembling round ye cUngS s 
The soul, unwound its coarse materisd chains. 
Basks in its own divinity, and feels 
There in the verge and portal of the heavens 
The neighbourhood of brighter worlds unseen ? 
Where the blue Glasslyn hurries her fleet course 
To wanton on the yellow level sands. 
On either side in sheer ascent abrupt 
The rocks, like barriers that in elder time 
Wall'd the huge cities of the Anakim, 
Upblacken to the sky, whose tender blue 
With mild reUef salutes th' o'erlabour'd sight. 
There on the scanty slippery way, that winds 
With the stream's windings, Samor loiters on.. 
But who art thou, that in the Avenger's path 
Standest in dark serenity ? what joy 
Instinct amid thy thick black locks reveals 
The full voluptuous quietude within ? 
Oh, Prophet ! in thy wanderings wide and far 
Amid the pregnant hours of future time, 
Haply the form of Samor, disai'ray'd 
Calamity's sad vesture, hath appear'd 
In plenitude of glory. Hence thine eye 
With recognition glad and bright salutes 
The Man of Fate. To earth the Prophet old 
Bow'd down, then look'd he on the waters dark, 
Then upward to the mountains. " Stony earth, 
Within thy secret bosom feel'st not thou 
A wonderous presence ? dwells not, thou blue 

stream, 
Under thy depth of waves a silent awe ? — 
Yea, Snowdon, lift thou up in sternest pride 
Thy cloudy mantled brow; ye know him all, 
Ye know the Avenger." — "Merlin, mock not 

thou 
Thy fellow-creature of the dust, the child 
Of sin and sorrow, with o'erlabour'd phrase. 
Abasing the immortal elements 
From their high calm indifference to sense 
Of our light motions. Simple truth severe 
Best seemeth aged lips ; oh, holy famed 
And sage, how ill strong Wisdom's voice melta 

down 
To the faint chime of flattery." — " Poor of pride! 
Feeble of hope! thou seest thyself forlorn, 
An hunted wanderer in thy native land. 
I see thee clad in victory and revenge. 
Thy glory saiUng wide on all the winds. 



S A M O R . 



503 



Beautiful with thy blessings at thy feet 

Thy own fair Britain, Fate so freely spreads, 

Her music volume for my sight." — " Oh, blind, 

And ignorant as blind our insect race ! 

The mole would count the sunbeams, the bUnd 

worm 
Search the hid jewels in the depths of earth, 
And man, dim dreamer, would invade the hea- 
vens. 
Self-seated in the Almighty's councils, read 
The secrets of Omniscience, yea, with gaze 
Familiar scrutinize the Inscrutable. 
I tell thee. Merlin, that the soul of man 
Is destiny on earth ! God gave us limbs 
To execute, and intellect to will 
Or good or evil, and his unseen Spirit 
Our appetites of holiness, else faint 
And wavering, doth corroborate : hence man's 

prides, 
Man's glories, and man's virtues all are God's. 
If yet this heart unwearied may bear on, 
Nor from its holy purpose faintly swerve. 
The Lord be praised, its fate is pride and joy. 
But if, and oh the peril ! it play false 
Its country's lofty hazard, shall it shift 
On wayward destiny its sloth and sin? 
Evil is not, where man no evil wills, 
And good is not, where will not man and God." 

" Chief wise as brave, as to our feeble sight 
Yon pebble's slight circumference, the Past, 
The Present, and the future of this world 
Are to the All-seeing vision ; oft doth Heaven 
In sign and symbol duskily reveal 
The unborn future ; oft Fate's chariot wheels 
Are harbinger'd by voices that proclaim 
The fashion of their coming ; gifted Seers 
Veel on their lips articulate the deeds 
Of later days, and dim oracular sights 
Crowd the weak eyes, till pall'd attention faint 
To dizziness." — " Oh, Merhn, time hath been 
When in the guilty cities the Lord's voice 
Hath spoken by his Prophets, hath made quail 
By apparitions ominous and dire 
Strong empires on their unassailed height. 
But oh, for us of this devoted isle, 
Drench'd with the vials of Almighty wrath, 
To gaze up, and beseech the clouds to rain 
Bright miracles on this poor speck of earth." 

"Shame choke thy speech, despondent slan- 
derer ! thee 
Avenger ! this from thee ! Away ! my lips 
Burn with the fire of heaven, my heart flows o'er 
With gladness and with glory. Peerless Isle, 
How dost thou sit amid thy blue domain 
Of ocean like a sceptred Queen ! The bonds 
Like flax have wither'd from thy comely limbs. 
Thou, the strong freedom of thy untamed locks 
Shaking abroad, adornest God's fair world. 
Thou noblest Eden of man's fallen state. 
Apart and sever'd from the common earth, 
Even like a precious jewel, deep and far 
In the abyss of time thy dawn of pride 
Still with a fuller and more constant blaze 
Grows to its broad meridian, and Time's rolls 
Are silent of thy setting. Oh, how fair 
The steps of freemen in thy vales of peace ; 



Thy broad towns teem with wealth, thy yellow 

fields 
Laugh in their full fertility ; thy bays 
Whiten and glisten with thy myriad barks. 
The Angels love thee, and the airs of heaven 
Are gladden'd by thy holy hymns ; while Faith 
Sits on thy altars, like a nestling dove, 
In unattainted snowiness of plume." 

" Now, by my soul, thou strange and solemn 

Man, 
Mistrust thee more I dare not ; be 't a dream 
Or revelation of immortal truth. 
Of Britain's fame I cannot choose but hear 
With a child's transport." — Then the Prophet 

shook 
The dark profusion of his sweUing hair 
With a stern triumph ; then his aged eye 
Grew restless with delight; his thin white hand 
Closing around the Baron's arm, lay there 
Like a hard glove of steel. He led him on, 
Till now the black and. shaggy pass spread out 
To a green quiet valley, after named 
The Bed of Gelert, that too-faithful hound 
Slain fondly by his erring Lord : the stream 
Here curl'd more wanton, lightly wafting down 
The last thin golden leaves the alders dropt, 
Like fairy barges skimming the blue waves. 
That stream o'erpass'd, rightward their silent way 
Lay to the foot of Snowdon. Pause was none. 
They front the steep ascent, and upward wind 
A long, sheer, toilsome path, their footfalls struck 
Upon the black bare stillness, audible 
As in thick forest the lone woodman's axe. 
'Twas strange, yet slack'd not that old reverend 

Man 
His upward step, as though the mountain air 
Were his peculiar element, still his breath 
Respired unlabouring, hvely bounded on 
His limbs, late slow and tremulous. Three long 

hours 
Now front to front upon that topmost peak, 
Erwydfa, sit they motionless, alone : 
As when two vultures on some broken tower. 
That beetles o'er a dismal battle-field. 
In dark and greedy patience ruminate 
Their evening feast ; a stillness as of sleep 
Heaves in their ruffled plumes, their deep bright 

eyes 
Half closed in languid rest; so undisturb'd, 
So lofty, sate the Avenger and the Seer. 
The atmosphere, that palls our restless world, 
Lay coihng in its murky folds below : 
So in some regal theatre, when droops 
The unfolding curtain, and within it shrouds 
The high disastrous passions, crimes, and woes 
Ere while that fretted on its pomp of scene ; 
Thus Earth, with all its solemn tragedies, 
Heroic vauntings, sumptuous imagings, 
Set in its veil of darkness from their sight. 
The filmless, the pellucid heaven above 
One broad pure sheet of sunHght. — " Gifted Man, 
(Cried Samor,) wherefore to this desolate 
Untrodden !" — "Ha! untrodden ! know ye not, 
Where coarse humanity defiles not, there 
The snowy-footed Angels lightly skim 
The taintless soil, the fragrance of their plumes 
■Fans the pure air where chokes no breath of sin 



504 



HENitY HART MILMAN. 



The limpid current ? Desolate ! the motes 
That flicker in the smi are few and rare 
To the immortal faces that smile down 
Exquisite transport on the ravish' d sense. 
Here, from their kindred elements, emanate 
The festive creatures of the heavenly fields. 
Glories, and Mercies, and Beatitudes, 
Some dropping on the silent summer dews. 
Some trembling on the rainbow's violet verge. 
Some rarely charioteering on the wings 
Of the mild winds, in moonhght some. Why 

shakes 
The Man of Vengeance ? wherefore of mine hand 
This passionate wringing ?"—" Tell me, truly 

tell ; 
The name of Emeric from some mild-lipp'd tone 
Hath it e'er trembled on thine ear ? Old Man, 
Is't sin to say her presence might adorn 
That gentle company ?" — " To souls like thine, 
Warrior, Heaven grants sweet intercourse and 

free 
With its beatified." — "Ah ! now thou rakest 
The ashes of a buried grief; gone all. 
My gentle visitations broken ofi". 
My delicate discoursings silent, ceased ! 
Oh, I talk idly, Prophet, speak thou on." 

" Ay, Warrior, and of mild and soft no more ; 
Grandeurs there are, to which the gates of 

heaven 
Set wide their burnish'd portals: midnight feels 
Cherubic splendours ranging her dun gloom, 
The tempests are ennobled by the state 
Of high seraphic motion. I have seen, 
I, Merlin, have beheld. It stood in light, 
It spake in sounds for earth's gross winds too 

pure. 
Between the midnight and the morn 'twas here 
I lay, I know not if I slept or woke, 
Yet mine eyes saw. Long, long this heart had 

yearn'd, 
'Mid those rich passings and majestic shows 
For shape distinct, and palpable clear sound. 
It burst at length, yea, front to front it stood, 
The immortal Presence. I clench'd up the dust 
In the agony and rapture of my fear, 
And my soul wept with terror and deep joy. 
It stood upon the winds, an Angel plumed. 
And mail'd and crown' d ; his plumes cast forth a 

tinge 
Like blood on th' air around: his arms, in shape 
Etherial panoply complete, in hue 
The moonlight on the dark Llanberis lake, 
A bright blue rippling glitter ; for the crown, 
Palm leaves of orient light his brow enwreathed. 
That bloom'd in fair divinity of wrath, 
And beautiful relentlessness austere. 
Knowledge was in my heart, and on my lips ; 
I felt him, who he was. — ' Archangel ! hail. 
Destroyer ! art not thou God's Delegate, 
To break the glassy glories of this world ? 
The gem-knosp'd diadem, the ivory ball, 
Sceptre and sword, imperial mantle broad. 
The Lord of Nations, Thundershaft of war. 
Are glorious on the pale submissive earth : 
Thou comest, and lo, for throne, for sword, for 

klog, 
Bare ashes and thin dust. Thou art, that aye 



The rich -tower' d cities smoulder' st to pale heaps 
Of lazy moss-stones, and aye after thee 
Hoots Desolation, like a dank- wing' d owl 
Upon the marble palaces of Kings. 
Thou wert, when old Assyrian Nineveh 
Sank to a pool of waters, waste and foul ; 
Thou, when the Median's brow the massy tiar 
Let fall, and when the Grecian's brazen throne 
Sever' d and split to the four winds ; and now 
Consummatest thy work of wreck and scorn. 
Even on Rome's Caesars, making the earth sick 
Of its own hollowness. Archangel! Hail, 
Vicegerent of destruction ! Cupbearer, 
That pour' St the bitter liquor of Heaven's wrath, 
A lamentable homage pay I thee, 
And sue thee tell if Britain's days are full, 
Her lips for thy sad beverage ripe.' Thereat 
Earthward his sunny spear its lurid point 
Declined, and lo, a White Horse, through the 

land 
Ranging in stately speed ; our city gates 
Shrunk open at his coming, our fair fields 
Wither' d before him, so his fiery breath 
Flared broad amazement through the gasping 

land. 
Triumph was in the trampling of his feet, 
And the strong joy of mockery, for he trod 
On broken principalities ; his mane 
Familiar Conquest, as a rushing wind, 
Fann'd in loose brilliant streamings." — " False- 

lipp'd Seer, 
Thou spakest of gladness, and thy ominous tone 
Is darkness and dismay." — "Hark, Warrior, 

hark : 
That wanton mane was trail' d down to the dust, 
That fiery trampling falter'd to dull dread, 
That pale victorious steed Thee, Thee I saw. 
Visible as thou stand' st, with mastering arm 
Drag down, and on his strong and baffled neck 
Full trod thy iron-sandal'd heel. The sight 
Was wine unto my soul, and I laugh' d out, 
And mock'd the ruinous Seraph in the clouds. 

" Yet stood he in the quiet of his wrath. 
Angelic Expectation, that awaits 
Calmly till God accomplish God's high will, 
Full on his brow. Then stoop'd the spear again, 
And lo. Seven Steeds, like that pale One, 

bestrode 
The patient Isle, and they that on them rode 
Wore diadem and regal pall ; then rose 
To war against those royal riders fierce. 
From a round table, Knights in sunlike arms. 
Shields bossy with rich impress quaint, and fair 
Their coursers, as the fire-hoof'd steeds of Morn. 
To white-arm'd Ladies in a stately court 
Bards hymn'd the deeds of that fine chivalry, 
And their crown'd Captain's title smote mine ear, 
' Arthur of Bretagne.' — Years went rolling on, 
Cloudy, discordant, and tempestuous years. 
For the sword reap'd the harvest of the land, 
And battle was the may-game of her sons. 
And lo, a Raven o'er the Eastern sea 
Swoop'd desolation on the Isle ; her wings 
Blasted where'er they waved, the earth wept 

blood 
In her foul talons' gripe. But he that rode 
On the White Steed, the Sovereign of the Land 



SAMOR, 



505 



(Patience, Avenger, patience !) fair was he 
That Sovereign, as the virgin's spring-tide 

dream, 
Holy as new-anointed Christian Priest, 
Vahant as warrior burnish'd for the fight, 
Fond and ecstatic as love-dreaming Bard, 
Solemn and wise as old Philosopher, 
Stately as king-born lion in the wood ; 
As he his fine face heavenward turn'd in prayer, 
The Angels bent down from their throning 

clouds, 
To wonder at that admirable King, 
Sky-wandering voices peal'd in transport out — 
'Alfred !' the baffled Raven cower' d aloof, 
The isle look'd up to heaven in peace and joy. 

" Still stood he there, betwixt me and the sun, 
Th' Archangel ; not in sleep, nor senselessness 
Absorb'd, but terrible inaction spread 
Over his innate menace. Oh, T strove. 
Yet dared not hope the dregs of wrath were 

drain'd. 
The mission of dismay fulfill' d and done ; 
Yet had those wings of fatal hue droop'd down 
In folded motionlessness, wreathy light 
Had crept and wound around that dusky spear, 
Silvering its perilous darkness. Dropt at once 
That tender light away ; at once those wings 
Started asunder, and spread wide and red 
The rain of desolation, thicker roll'd 
The pedestal of clouds whereon he stood, 
As to bear up the effort of his wrath. 
Again the Eastern Raven snuff' d our air, 
The frantic White Horse laved his hoofs in 

blood. 
Till from the Southern Continent sprung forth 
A Leopard, on the ocean shore he ramp'd. 
Woe to the White Horse, to the Raven woe, 
Woe for the title of the Leopard Lord, 
The Conqueror ! and a Bell I heard, that sway'd 
Along the isle, and froze it into peace 
With its majestic tyranny of sound. 

" But he, itpon the air, th' Archangel, he. 
The summons of whose eye from climes remote 
Beckon'd those grisly ministers of wrath. 
Northward he look'd, no northern ruin came. 
To th' East, there all was still. The South, nor 

shape 
Nor sound. The West, calm stretch'd th' un- 
ruffled sea. 
Ha ! thought I, earth hath now no ruin more. 
The race of havoc is extinct for us : 
Angel of wreck, away ! thy task is o'er ; 
Majestic Mischief, from our isle away ! 
He went not ; as an earthquake's second shock. 
With dreary longing watch'd I what might 

come ; 
Moments were years ; and lo, the Island's sons 
Nor Briton they, nor Saxon, nor the stock 
Of those new-comers, but from each had flow'd 
All qualities of honour and renown. 
The foul dishonest dregs had fumed away. 
And the rich quintessence, unmix'd, unsoil'd, 
A harmony of energies sublime, 
Knit in that high-brow'd people. Courtesy, 
Death-scorning valour, Fame's immortal thirst, 
And honour inbreathed like the life of life. | 

64 



"Then rose ihat strong Archangel, and he 

smote 
The bosom of the land ; at once leap'd up 
That mighty people. Here a Snow-white Rose, 
And there a Red, with fatal blossoming, 
And deadly fragrance, maddening all the land. 
I heard, I saw — ah, impious sights and "Sounds! 
Two war-cries in one tongue, two banner-rolls 
Woven in one loom, two lances from one forge, 
Two children from one womb in conflict met ; 
'Gainst brother brother's blood cried out to 

heaven. 
And he that rent the vizor of his foe 
Look'd through the shatter'd bars and saw liie 

son. 
Ha, Britain ! in thine entrails dost thou flesh 
Thy ravin ! thy baronial castles blaze 
With firebrands from their hospitable hearths. 

" ' Mercy,' I cried aloud, ' thou Merciless ! 
Destroy no more. Destroyer !' Prone I fell, 
And hid mine aching eyes deep in the dust ; 
So from my rocking memory to shut out 
Those wars unnatural. Pass'd a sound at length 
As of a Wild Boar hunted to his death : 
I raised my head, still there the Archangel stood; 
Another pause, another gleam of hope; 
But in that quiet interval me-seem'd 
Trumpetings, as of victory from the sea, 
Flow'd o'er the Isle, and glories beam'd abroad 
From a triumphant throne, where sate elate 
A Virgin : all aroimd her Poets' harps 
Strew' d flowers of amaranth blooming ; and me- 

thought 
Was joy and solemn welcoming in heaven 
Of a pure incense, that from all the Isle 
Soar'd to the unapproached throne of God. 

' ' Then saw I through the Isle a River broad 
And full, and they that drank thereof look'd up 
Like children dropt forth from a nobler world. 
So powerful that proud water wark'd within. 
Freshening the body and the soul : and each 
Beauty array' d and a frank simple strength. 
The river's name was Freedom : her fair tide 
So pleasant thrall'd mine eye, I saw not rise 
Th' Archangel's spear : th' earth's reeling woke 

me then, 
For lo, upon a throne, a gallant Prince, 
That with misguided sceptre strove to check 
That powerful stream : whereat the rebel tide 
Swell'd up with indignation, and aloof 
Stood gathering its high-crested waves ; down 

came 
The deluge, that fair throne, and all its strong 
Nobility of pillars, whh a crash 
Came to the earth, while they that drank rush'd 

out 
Inebriate with e.xcess of that fierce stream. 
And cast a bloody sacrifice, that head 
Endiadem'd with royalty, to glut 
The tide implacable. 'Tis sad to hear. 
Ay, Samor, what was it to see ! Brave Chief, 
Cold winter leads the pleasant summer on. 
The night must darken ere the morning dawn ; 
The summer came, the morning dawn'd, I saw 
The arch'd heavens open o'er the angelic 

shape. 



506 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



And upward like a cloud he mingled in 
To the sky's cloudiness. I cried aloud 
' For ever !' the close settling in the heaven 
Seem'd to reply ' For ever.' Not with him 
Pass'd off my vision fair. Another throne 
Stood by the venturous margin of that stream : 
Then merriment, and loose-harp'd wantonness 
Smoothed the late ruffled air ; immodest tones, 
To which fair forms in dancing motion swam : 
They paused, then dark around that throne it 

seem'd, 
Whereat those holy hymns that scarce had 

ceased 
To float up in their airy-winged course, 
In faintness 'gan to tremble and break off; 
That stream again upgather'd its waked wrath, 
And foamy menace. When behold, a fleet 
Came tilting o'er the ocean waves, and cast 
A Lady and a Warrior on the shore. 
And kingly crowns around their brows august 
Out blossom' d ; on the throne they took their 

seat, 
Soar'd gladness on the wings of those pure 

hymns, 
And the majestic stream in sunlight flow 
And full rejoicing murmur, all its waves 
Wafted around the high and steady throne. 

" Now listen with thy soul, not with thine 

ears: 
Briton ! beside that stream a Tree sprang out, 
With ever-mounting height, and amplitude 
Aye-spreading ; deep in earth its gnarled roots 
Struck down, as though to strengthen this frail 

world : 
Its crown amid the clouds seem'd soaring up 
For calm above earth's tossing and rude stir, 
And its broad branching spread so wide, its shade 
Lay upon distant realms ; one golden bright, 
Close by the cradle of the infant sun, 
And others in new western worlds remote ; 
And from that mystic river, Freedom, flovv'd 
A moisture like the sap of life, that fed 
And fertilized the spacious Tree ; the gales 
Of ocean with a gorgeous freshness flush'd 
The beauty of its foliage. Blossoms rare 
Weje on it; holy deeds, that in the airs 
Of heaven delicious smelt, and fruits on earth 
Shower'd from it, making its sad visage smile, 
'P'or life and hope and bliss was in their taste. 
Amid the state of boughs twin Eagles hung 
Their eyries. Victory and Renown, and swung 
In rapturous sport Vv'ith the tumultuous winds. 
But birds obscene, Dishonour, Shame, Dismay, 
Scared by the light of the bright leaves, aloof 
Far wheel'd their sullen flight, nor dared to 

stoop. 
I saw the nations graft their wasted trunks 
From those broad boughs of beauty and of 

strength, 
And dip their drain'd urns in that sacred stream. 
But in the deep peculiar shade there stood 
A Throne, an Altar, and a Senate-house. 
Upon the throne a King sate, triple- crown' d 
As by three kingdoms ; voices eloquent 
In harmony of discord fulmined forth 
From that wise Senate : in swift intercourse 
To and fro from heaven's crystal battlements 



To that pure altar Angels stoop'd their flight. 
And through the sunny bowers Philosophers 
Held commerce with the skies, and drew from 

thence 
The stars to suffer their sage scrutiny ; 
And Poets sent up through the bowery vault 
Such lavish harmonies, the charm'd air seem'd 
Forgetful of its twinkling motion dim. 

" Oh, admirable Tree ! thou shall not fall 
By foreign axe, or slow decay within ! 
The tempests strengthen thee, the summer aire 
Corrupt not, but adorn. Until that tide, 
Freedom, the Inexhaustible, exhaust. 
Lives the coeval Immortality." 

The Prophet ceased : still Samor on his face:, 
That in solemnity of firm appeal 
Look'd heavenward, with a passionate belief 
Gazed, and a glad abandonment. " Ha, Seer, 
But now when thou began'st 'twas noon of day, 
And now deep night. Yea, Merlin, and by 

night 
The Tamer of the White Steed must go forge 
His iron curb." Forth like a cataract 
He burst, and bounded down the mountain side. 
" Yet once again, tumultuous world, I plunge 
Amid thy mad abyss ; thou proud and fierce, 
I come to break and tame thee ! see ye not. 
Wise Hengist ! strong Caswallon ! how the sand 
Is under your high towering thrones, the worm 
Is in your showy palms." — And then a pause 
Of tumult and proud trembling in his soul. 
And, " False it was not, but a gleam vouchsafed 
From the eternal orb of truth, the sense 
That inbred and ingrain'd with my soul's life. 
Hath made of Britain to this leaping heart 
A sound not merely of deep love, but pride 
Intense, and inborn majesty. I feel, 
And from my earliest consciousness have felt 
That in the wide hereafter, wjiere old Fate 
Broods o'er the unravelling web of human things. 
Woven by the Almighty, spreads shy tissue 

broad 
In light, among the dark and mazy threads ; 
Vicissitude or mutability 
Quench not its desolate lustre, on it winds 
Unbroken, unattainted, unobscured." — 

So pass'd he: who had seen, him then had 
deem'd. 
By the proud steed-like tossing of his crest, 
His motion like the uncheck'd August sun 
Travelling the cloudless vacancy of air, 
A monarch for his summer pastime gone 
Into the shady grove, with courtier train. 
And plumed steed, and laden sumpter mule, 
Cool canopy, and velvet carpeting. 
But he beneath the sleety winter sky. 
Even his hard arms bit into by the keen 
And searching airs, houseless, by hazard found 
His coarse irregular fare, his drink, the ice 
Toilsomely broken from the stiff black pool. 
The furr'd wolf in the mossy oaken trunk 
Lapp'd himself from the beating snow, but on 
Went Samof with unshivering naked foot ; 
The tempest from the mountain side tore down 
The pine, like a scathed trophy casting it 



SAMOR. 



507 



To moulder in the vale, but Samor's brow 
Fronted the rude sky ; the free torrent felt 
The ice its rushing turbulence o'ergrow, 
Translucent in its cold captivity 
It hung, but Samor burst the invading frost 
From the untam'd waters of his soul, and flow'd 
Fetterless on his deep unfathom'd course. 

And thou, wild Deva, how hast thou foregone 
Thy summer music, and thy sunny play 
Of eddies whitening 'mid thy channel stones; 
Bard-beloved river, on whose green-fring'd brink 
The fine imagining Grecian sure had feign' d 
'Twixt thy smooth Naiads and the Sylvans rude 
Of thy grey woods stolen amorous intercourse; 
With such a slow reluctance thou delay's! 
Under the dipping branches, that flap up 
With every shifting motion of the wind 
Thy limpid moisture, and with serpent coil 
Dost seem as thou wouldst mingle with thyself 
To wander o'er again the same loved course. 
Now lies thy ice-bound bosom mute and flat 
As marble pavement, thy o'ershadowing woods 
One bare, brown leaflessness, that faintly drop 
At intervals the heavy icicles, 
Like tears upon a monumental stone. 
But though the merry waters and brisk leaves 
Are silent, with their close-couch'd birds of 

song. 
Even in this blank dead season music loves 
Thy banks, and sounds harmonious must be 

heard 
Even o'er thy frozen waters. 'Twas a hymn 
From a low chapel by the river side. 
Came struggling through the thick and hazy air. 
And made a gushing as of tears flow o'er 
The Wanderer's soul ; the form winds could not 

bow, 
Nor crazing tempests those soft sounds amate ; 
Those dews of music melt into the frame 
Of adamant, proof against the parching frost. 

Under the porch he glided in, and knelt 
Unnoticed in the throng : whose motion sway'd 
The beasts of ravin, he before his God 
Wore nought distinctive, save of those bruised 

reeds 
Was ho the sorest bruised, and deepest seem'd 
The full devotion settling round his heart. 
More musical than the music on that soul, 
So long inured to things tumultuous, sights 
Rugged and strange, and hurrying and distract, 
Game the sensation of a face beloved. 
The calm of that old reverend brow, the glow 
Of its thin silver locks, was like a flash 
Of sunlight in the pauses of a storm. 
Now hath the white-stoled Bishop lifted up 
His arms, his parting benison descends 
Like summer rain upon bis flock. Whose ear, 
Oh, holy Germain, felt thy gentle tones 
As Samor's ? ah, when last thy saintly brow 
For him look'd heavenward, and less tremulous 

then 
Thy voice on him breathed blessing, 'twas in 

times 
Far brighter, at that jocund bridal hour 
When Emeric, rosy between shame and joy, 
Stood with him by the altar side : — '" Thus live 



In love till life's departure ;" — Such thy prayer ; 
Ah, words how vain ! sweet blessings unenjoy'd ! 

The throng hath parted ; in the House of God 
Still knelt the armed man ; with pressure strong 
He clasp'd old Germain's hand — " Good Bishop, 

thou 
Art skill'd in balancing our earthly sins. 
I was a man, whose high ambitious head 
Was among God's bright stars ; I deem'd of 

earth 
As of a place whose dust my feet shook off 
With a heaven-gifted scorn, so far, so high 
Seem'd I above its tainting elevate. 
At midnight, on my slumber came the sin, 
I will not say how exquisite and fair ; 
Mine eyelids sprung apart to drink it in, 
My soul leap'd up to clasp it, and the folds 
Of passion, like a fiery robe, wrapt in 
My nature ; I had fallen, but bounteous Heaven 
Of its most blest permitted one t' extend 
A snow-white arm of rescue." — " The hot tears 
Corrode and fret the warrior's brazen helm; 
I will not ask thee of thine outward eyes, 
Hath thy soul wept?" — " Ay, Bishop, tears of 

blood ; 
Sorrow and shame weigh'd down my nerveless 

arm, 
And clipp'd th' aspiring plumage of my soul; 
From out mine own heart scorn hiss'd at me."— 

" Well, 
Strong Man of arms, hast fought the inward fight, 
And God remit thy sins, as I remit." — 

" Then take thou to thy arms thy ancient 

friend." 
So saying, uprose Samor, like a star 
Out of the ocean, sliining his bright face 
With the pure dews of penitence. But he, 
The old man, fell upon his neck and wept, 
As though th' endearing name, my Son, were 

voiced 
By nature, not by saintly use, a sound 
Not of the lips, but th' overflowing heart. 

Theirs was a broken conference, drear thoughts 
Of anguish, desolation, and despair. 
So moulded up with recollections sweet. 
They made the sunken visage smile through 

tears ; 
A few fair roses shed on a brown heath, 
A little honey in deep cups of gall: 
Light bridal airs broke in upon by sounds 
Funereal, shouts of triumph languishing 
To the faint shriek of agony, direness forced 
Into the fresh bowers of delight, and death, 
Th' unjoyous, in the laughing feast of joy. 

'Tis th' one poor luxury the wretched have, 
To speak of wretchedness — yet brief their speech, 
" Vengeance and vigilance," the stern adieu 
Even in that hoary Bishop's ear, he went. 

But by the Bishop's side, just there where knelt 
Th' Avenger, a new form : 'twas man in garb, 
But the thin fringing of the humid eye, 
The delicate wanderings of the rosy veins, 
The round full alabaster of the skin, 



508 



HENRY HART MiLMAN, 



The briefness of the modest sliding step, 

Something of womanly composure smooth, 

Even in the close and girt habiliments, 

Belied the stern appearance, — "Priest, with him 

But now who parted, is my soul allied 

In secret, close society ; his faith 

Must be my faith, his God my God." — "Fair 

youth, 
I question not by what imperious tie 
Of admiration or strong love thou'rt led; 
For as the Heavens with silent power intense 
Draw upward the light mists and fogs of earth, 
And steeping them in glory, hang them forth 
Fresh, renovate, and radiant; virtue holds 
The like attractive influence, to her trains 
Souls light and clayey-tinctured, till they catch 
The fair contagion of her beauty, beam 
With her imparted hght. Hear, heathen youth, 
Hear and believe." — As when beneath the nave 
Tall arching, the Cathedral organ 'gins 
Its prelude, lingeringly exquisite 
Within retired the bashful sweetness dwells, 
Anon like sunlight, or the floodgate rush 
Of waters, bursts it forth, clear, solemn, full; 
It breaks upon the mazy fretted roof. 
It coils up round the clustering pillars tall, 
It leaps into the cell-like chapels, strikes 
Beneath the pavement sepulchres, at once 
The living temple is instinct, ablaze 
Whh the uncontroll'd exuberance of sound. 



Even so with smoothing gentleness began 
The mitred Preacher, winning audience close : 
Till rising up, the rapid argument 
Soar'd to the Empyrean, hnking earth 
With heaven by golden chains of eloquence ; 
Till the mind, all its faculties and powers. 
Lay floating, self-surrender' d in the deep 
Of admiration. Wondrous 'twas to see, 
With the transitions of the Holy Creed, 
The workings of that regular bright face : 
Now ashy blank, now glittering bright, m 

dew'd 
With fast sad tears, now with a weeping smile 
Now heavy with droop'd eyelids, open now 
With forehead arch'd in rapture ; till at last 
Ensued a gasping listening without breath. 
But as the voice severe wound up the strain 
And from the heavenly history to enforce 
The everlasting moral, 'gan extort 
From the novitiate in the jealous faith 
Passionless purity, and hfe sincere 
From all the soft indulgences of sin ; 
Forbidden in the secret heart to shrine 
A dear unlawful image, to reserve 
A sad and narrow sanctuary for desire : 
Then stood in speechlessness, yet supphant. 
With snowy arms out stretch' d, and quivering 

loose, 
The veiling mantle thrown in anguish back, 
Confest the Woman : starting from their band, 
Like golden waters o'er a marble bed, 
Flow'd out her long locks o'er her half-bare 
neck. 

" To tell me that in such cold solemn tones. 
All, all unwelcome, bitter as it is, 
I must believe, for its oppressive truth 



Loads oa my soul, and he believes it all. 

To tell it me here, here, where all around 

Linger his vestiges, where the warm air 

Yet hath the motion of his breath, the sound 

Of his departing footsteps beating yet 

Upon my heart. Long sought ! and found in 

vain ! 
In sunshine have I sought thee and in shade, 
O'er mountain have I track' d thee, and through 

vale, 
The clouds have wrapp'd thee, but I lost thee 

not, 
The torrents drown' d thy track, but not from 

me, 
I dared not meet thee, but I sought thee still ; - 
To me forbid, alone to me, what all 
The coarse and common things of nature may ; 
The airs of heaven may touch thee, I may not, 
All human eyes behold thee — all but mine ; 
And thou, the senseless, enviable dust 
Mayst cherish the round traces of his limbs, 
His fresh fair image must away from me. 
Oh, that I were the dust whereon thou treadst, 
Even though I felt thee not !" — And is this she. 
The virgin of the festal hall, who won 
A kingdom for a smile, nor deign'd regard 
Its winning, and who stoop'd to be a Queen? 
And is this she, whose coming on the earth 
Was like the Morn in her impearled car. 
Loftiest or loveliest which, 'twere bold to say ? 
She whose enamouring scorn fell luxury-like 
On her beholders, who seem'd glad to shrink 
Beneath the wreathed contempt of her full lip? 
This she, the Lady of the summer bark, 
To whom the sunshine and the airs, and all 
Th' inconstant waters play'd the courtier smooth 
That cast a human feeling of dehght 
At her bewitching presence o'er the blind 
Unconscious forms of nature ? Is this she ? 
Those rich lips, for a monarch's banquet meet. 
Visiting the dust with frantic kiss, thus low. 
Thus desolate, thus fallen, of her fall 
Careless, so deep in shame-; yet unashamed! 



But thou. Heaven reconciled, on earth tlr 
seal'd. 
The anointed by the prophet's gladdening oils, 
God's instrument, hath midnight now resumed 
Its spirit-wafting function ? Emeric, she 
On earth so mild, in her had anger seem'd 
Unnatural as a v.'ar-song on a lute. 
As blood upon the pinion of a dove. 
In heaven has she her heavenly qualities 
Unlearnt ? is she the angel now in all 
But its best part, forgiveness? Can it be 
Th' ungentle North, the bleak and snowy air 
Estrange her now ? those elements of earth 
But tyrannize beneath the moon, the stars 
And spirits in their nature privileged 
From heat and cold, from fevering and from 

frost. 
Their pure and constant temperament maintain. 
Glide through the storm serene, and rosy warm 
Rove the frore winter air. Are sounds abroad, 
That Samor from his mossy pillow, stretch' d 
Under the oak, uplifts his head, and then 
Like one bliss-overcome, subsides again? 
Half sleep, half sense he lies, his nuptial hymn, 



S A M O R , 



509 



Articulate each gay and dancing word, 
Distinct each deUcate and dwelling fall, 
Is somewhere in the air about him ; looks 
Are on him of a bashful eye, too fond 
To turn away, too timorous to fix 
And rest unwavering. All the marriage rite 
Is acting now anew ; the sunlight falls 
Upon the gold-clasp'd book of prayer, as then 
It fell, and Germain speaks as Germain spake ; 
And Emeric, on her cheek the tear is there, 
Where then it hung in lucid trembUng bright; 
The very fluttering of her yielded hand, 
When gliding up her finger sm.all, the ring 
Made her his own for ever, throbs again 
Upon his sensitive touch. He dares not move 
Lest he should break the lovely bubble frail; 
His tranced eyes stir not, lest they rove away 
From that delicious sight ; his open hand 
Lies pulseless, lest the slightest change disturb 
That exquisite sensation : so he lies. 
Knowing all false, yet feeling all as true. 

And it was false, yet why ? that is indeed. 
Which is to sense and sight. Ah, well beseems 
Us, the strong insects of an April morn, 
Steady and constant as the thistle's down 
When winds are on it, lasting as the flake 
Of springs now on the warm and grassy ground, 
Well beseems us, ourselves, our forms, our 

lives, 
The earth we tread on, and the air we breathe. 
The light and glassy peophng of a dream, 
T' arraign our visions for their perishing, 
And on their unreality to rail, 
Ungrateful to the illusion, that deceives 
To rapture, and unwise to cast away 
Sweet flov/ers because they are not amaranth. 

Thou, Samor, nor ungrateful nor unwise, 
That, 'scaping from this cold and dark below, 
Dost spread thee out for thy peculiar joy 
A land of fair imaginings, with shapes, 
And sounds, and motions, and sweet stillnesses, 
Dost give up all the moon beholds to woe 
And tumult, but in some far quiet sphere 
Findest thyself a pure companionship 
With spirits thou didst love, and who loved thee 
While passionate and earthly sense was theirs. 



BOOK IX. 



Who :racks the ship along the sea of storms ? 
Who through the dark haste of the wintry clouds 
Pierceth to where the planet in retired 
And constant motion the blue arch of heaven 
Traverselh ? Sometimes on the mountain top 
Of some huge wave the reappearing bark 
Takes its high stand, with pennon fluttering far 
And cautious sail half furl'd, yet eminent 
As of th' assaulting element in disdain. 
Sometimes amid the darkness falhng ofT, 
And scattering from its crystal sphere away. 
Bursts out the argent orb refresh'd, and shows 
Its lamp unquenchable. Thou voyager 
'Mid the rude waves of desolation, Star 



Of Britain's gloomy nighi, so bafflest thou 

My swift poetic vision ! now the waves 

Ride o'er ihee, nov/ the clouds devour thee up, 

And thou art lost to sight, and dare I say 

Lost to thy immortality of song ? 

Thee too anon I see emerging proud 

From the dusk billows of calamity, 

That swoln and haughty from the recent wreck 

Of thy compatriot navy, thee assail 

With their accumulated weight of surge. 

Thou topst some high-brow'd wave, and shaking 

off 
On either side their fury, brandishest 
Thy sohtary banner. Thee I see. 
Within th' embosoming midnight of the land, 
On gliding with smooth motion undisturb'd. 
And through the glimpses of the breaking gloom, 
Sometimes a solemn beauty sheddest forth 
On the distemper'd face of human things. 

Full in the centre of Caer Ebranc* stood 
A temple, by the August Severus rear'd 
To Mavors the Implacable ; what time 
That Csesar stoop'd his eagles on the wreck' 
Of British freedom, when the mountaineer, 
The King of Morven, if old songs be sooth, 
Fingal, from Carun's bloody flashing wavest 
Shook the fled Roman on his new-built wall ; 
And Ossian woke up on his hill of dreams. 
And spread the glory of his song abroad. 
To halo round his sceptred Hero's head. 

But not the less his work of pride pursued 
Th' imperial Roman ; up the pillars rose, 
Slow lengthening out their long unbroken lines ; 
In delicate solidity advanced. 
And stately grace toward the sky, till met 
By the hght massiveness of roof, that sloped 
Down on their flowery capitals. Nor knew 
That man of purple and of diadem, 
The Universal Architect at work, 
Framing for him a narrow building dark, 
The grave's lone building. Th' emperor and his 

bones 
Into the blank of things forgot and past 
Had moulder'd, but this proud and 'during pile, 
By wild weeds overgrown, by yellow hues 
Of age deep tinted, still a triumph wrought 
O'er time, and Christian disregard, and stood 
As though to mock its Maker's perishing. 

Upon the eastern pediment stood out 
A fierce relief, where the tumultuous stone 
Was nobly touch' d into a fit device 
For th' immortal Homicide within; it show'd 
His coming on the earth ; the God had burst 
The gates of Janus, that fell shattering back 
Behind him, from the wall the rearing steeds 
Sprung forth, and with their stony hoofs the air 
Insulted, Them Bellona urged, abroad 
Her snaky locks from her bare wrinkled brow 
Went scattering ; forward the haggard charioteer 
Lean'd, following to the coursers' reeking flanks 
The furrowing scourge with all herself, and hung 
Over their backs half fury, and half joy, 
As though to listen to their bruising- hoofs. 



t Gibbon, ch. vi. 



510 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



That trampled the thick massacre. Erect 
Behind, with shield drawn in and forward spear, 
The coned helm finely shaped toth' arching brow, 
The God stood up within the car, that seem'd 
To rush whenever the fleet wind swept by. 
His brow was glory, and his arm was power, 
And a smooth immortality of youth. 
Like freshness from Elysium newly left, 
Th' embalming of celestial airs inhaled, 
Touch'd with a beauty to be shudder'd at 
His massy shape, a lightning-like fierce grace. 
That makes itself admired, whilst it destroys. 

There on a throne, fronting the morning sun, 
Caswallon sate ; his sceptre a bright sword 
Unsheathed ; with savage art had he broke up 
His helmet to the likeness of a crown, 
Thereon uhcouthly set and clustering bright 
Rich jewels gUtter'd ; to his people ranged 
Upon the steps of marble sloping down, 
Barbaric justice minist'ring he sate, 
Expounding the absolute law of his own will, 
And from the abject at his feet received 
Homage that seem'd like worship : not alone 
From his wild people, but from lips baptized. 
Came titles that might make the patient Heavens 
Burst to the utterance of a laughing scorn ; 
Might wake up from the bosom of the grave, 
A bitter and compassionate contempt. 
To hear the inheritance of her dull worms, 
Named in his dauntless and unblushing style, 
" Unconqu'rable ! Omnipotent! Supreme!" — 

But all along the ranging column files. 
And all abroad the turgid landings spread, 
"Unconqu'rable! Omnipotent! Supreme!" 

Yet he, the Stranger, whom Prince Malwyn 
leads, 
He bows not, those hymn'd flatteries seem to jar 
Upon his sense, so high his head he bears 
Above them, like a man constrain'd to walk 
Amid low tufts of poisonous herbs ; he fronts 
The monarch, and thus 'gins his taunting strain : 
" Unconqu'rable ! whose conquering is the wolf's 
That when the shifting battle rages yet, 
Steals to some desert corner of the field, 
And riots on the spoils. Omnipotent ! 
Ay, as a passive weapon, wielded now, 
Now cast away contemptuous for the dust 
To canker and to rust around. Supreme ! 
O'er whom is Ruin on its vulture wings, 
Scoffing the bubble whereupon thou ridest, 
And waiting Hengist's call to swoop and pierce 
And dissipate its swoln and airy pride. 
Whose diadem of glory, sword of power, 
Yea, breath of fife, at Hengist's wayward will, 
Cling to thee, ready at his beck to fade, 
And shiver and expire." — " At Hengist's call ! 
At Hengist's beck! at Hengist's!" — the word 

choked. 
With eyes that dug into the Stranger's face, 
Yet so by wrath bewilder'd, they had lost 
Distinction, rose Caswallon. From the wall 
A lance he seized, huge as a pine-tree stem. 
That on Blencathara stands sheer 'gainst Hea- 
ven's storms : 
Far o'er all heads a long and rapid flight 



It cut along the air, till almost fail'd 

The sight to track it to its ponderous fall. 

Then taking on his throne his quiet seat, 

" Back, back to Hengist, say my lance flies thus. 

Bid him o'ercast it, then come here again 

To menace at Caswallon." — " Soft and weak, 

(Pursued the unwondering Stranger) know'sl 

thou not. 
There is a strength, that is not of the arm, 
Nor standeth in the muscles' sinewy play? 
It striketh, but its striking is unseen, 
It wieldeth, what it wieldeth seeming yet 
Sway'd by its own free motion. King, I say, 
Thou stepp'st not, speak'st not, but obedient still 
To Hengist's empire, thou'rt a dog that hunts 
But as thy master slips thee on his game, 
A bridled steed that vaunteth as his own 
His rider's prowess." — " Hah ! I know thee now, 
Insolent outcast, Samor?" — "And I thee. 
Self-outcast, once a Briton — oh thou fall'n 
When most thou seem'st exalted, oh most base 
When most ennobled, a most pitiful slave 
When bearing thee most lordly ! Briton once, 
Ay, every clod of earth that makes a part 
Of this isle's round, each leaf of every tree, 
And every wave of every streamlet brook. 
Should look upon thee with a mother's glance, 
And speak unto thee with a mother's voice. 
But thou, most impious and unnatural son. 
Hast sold thy mother to the shame and curse 
Of foreign lust, hast knit a league to rend 
And sever her, most proud if some torn limb 
Be cast thee for thy lot." — Then rose again 
Caswallon, from his brow the crown took off, 
And placing it in Samor's hand — " I read 
Thy purpose, and there's fire in't, by my throne! 
Now, Samor, place that crown upon my head, 
Do me thy homage, kneeling, as thy king, 
And thou and I, we'll have a glorious tilt 
At these proud Saxons. Turn not off; may boys 
Gild their young javelins in Caswallon's blood, 
And women pluck me by the beard, if e'er 
On other terms I league with thee." — The crown 
Samor received, and Samor look'd to heaven, 
And Samor bow'd his knee, — "Almighty God, 
If thine eternal thunderbolts are yet 
Unweary of their function dire, if earth 
Yet, yet have not exhausted and consumed 
Thy flame- wing'd armoury of wrath, reserve 
Some signal and particular revenge 
For this man's head : so this foul earth shall learn, 
Ere doomsday, that the sin, whose monstrous 

shape 
Doth most offend thy nice and sensitive sight, 
Is to bear arms against our native land. 
Make thou of him a monumental ruin, 
To publish in the ages long remote. 
That sometimes is thy red right hand uplift 
Against the living guilty." — And to earth, 
Upleaping, Samor dash'd the crown ; the gems 
Lay starry on the pavement white. On high 
Caswallon the rear'd sword of justice swung, 
Heavy with death, above th' Avenger's head. 
But he — " Caswallon, hold thine hand, here, 

here 
Thy warrant for my safety, by thy son 
A poniard given, upon his heart to wreak 
AH evil done myself." With bosom bare 



SAMOR. 



511 



Stood Malwyn by th' Avenger's side. But he 

Viewing that downy skin empurpled o'er 

With youth's light colouring, and his constant 

mien, 
Cast down the dagger, and "Fall what fall may, 
Excellent boy, my hand shall still be white 
From blood of thine." — Like wild-boar in his 

rush 
Baffled, or torrent-check'd, Caswallon paused — 
"Now, Christian, where learnt thou the art to 

wrest 
My vengeance from me ? Go, go, I may strike 
If the fit fire me. — By Andraste, boy, 
Boy Malwyn, there's thy father in thy blood. 
Ha! Samor, thou hast 'scaped me now, ere- 

while 
I'll make a footstool of thy neck, to mount 
On Britain's throne: alive or dead, I'll have 
A knee as supple, and a front as low 
From thee, as any of my milk-fed slaves : 
Go, go." — And Malwyn led the Avenger forth 
Along the dull and sleepy shore of Ouse, 
Till all Caer Ebranc's sounds flagg'd on his ear, 
And all its towers had dwindled from his sight. 
Ere parting, Malwyn clasp'd his hand, and tears 
Hung in his eyelids. — " Oh, thou know'st not yet 
How Hengist sways my father's passive mind ! 
My sister, my sweet Lilian, she whose sight 
Made mine eyes tremble, whom I've stolen to 

see. 
Despite my father's stern command, asleep 
With parted lips, and snowy breathing skin, 
Scarce knew she me, her brother; her' knew I 
So only that my spirit yearn 'd to mix 
With hers in fondness, she, even she, the soft, 
The innocent, a wolf had loved her, she 
Hath felt the drowning waters o'er her close, 
Fair victim of a hellish sacrifice." 
After a troubled silence, spake the Chief: 
" Malwyn, my Christian pupil, God will give 
The loved on earth another meeting-place ; 
Adieu, remember, Vengeance, Vigilance." — 

The spring had made an early effort faint, 
T' encroach upon the Winter's ancient reign. 
And she had lured forth from the glittering earth 
The snowdrop and pale cowslip, th' elder tree 
And hawthorn their green buds shot out, yet 

fear'd 
T' entrust the rude air with their dainty folds, 
A fresh green sparkled where the snow had been. 
And here and there a bird on the bare spray 
Warbled a timorous welcome, and the stream 
Of Eamont, as rejoicing to be free. 
Went laughing down its sunny silvering course. 

The only wint'ry thing on Eamont's shore 
Is human ; powerless are the airs that touch 
To breathing and to kindling the dead eanh. 
Powerless the dewy trembhng of the sun. 
To melt around the heart of Vortimer 
The snow that flakes and curdles there — that 

bank. 
That Utile bank of fair and cherish'd turf, 
Whereon his head reclines, ah, doth not rest ! 
By its round swelling, likest were a grave. 
Save that 'twere brief and narrow for all else 
But fairy, or those slender watery shapes 



That dance beneath the stream. Yet there the 

spring 
Hath dropp'd her first, her tenderest bloom ; the 

airs 
Find the first flowery odours on that spot ; 
Cowslip is there and primrose faint and pale, 
The daisy and the violet's blue eyes. 
Peeping from out the shaking grass. The step 
Of Samor wakens the pale slumberer there. 
He lifts his lean hands up, and parts away 
The matting hair from o'er his eyes, which look 
As though the painful sunlight wilder' d them. 
With stony stare that saw not. Save that lay 
A shepherd's wallet by his side, had seem'd 
That foot of man ne'er ventured here ; all sounds 
Were strf),nge and foreign, save the pendent arms 
Swinging above with heavy knolling sound. 
But Samor's presence made a sudden break 
Upon his miserable flow of thought; 
He motion'd first with bony arm, then spake. 
"Away, away, thou'rt fearful, thou'lt disturb, 
Away with thy arm'd head and iron heel, 
She will not venture, while thy aspect fierce 
Haunts hereabout, she cannot brook a sound. 
Nor any thing that's rude, and dark, and harsh. 
Nor any voice, nor any look but mine ; 
She will not come up, if thou linger'st here ; 
Hard and discourteous man, why seek to keep 
My own, my buried from me ! why prevent 
The smiling intercourse of those that love !" — 
" Sad man, what mean'st thou?" — " Speak not, 

but begone, 
I tell thee, she's beneath, I laid her there. 
And she'll come up to me, I know she will. 
Trembling and slender, soft and rosy pale. 
I know it, all things sound, and all things smile. 
As when she wont to meet me." — " Woeful 

youth. 
The dead shall never rise but once." — " And 

why ? 
The primrose that was dead, I saw it shed 
Its leaves, and now again 'tis fresh and fair; 
The swallow, fled on gliding wing away. 
Like a departing spirit, see it skims 
The waters ; the white dormouse, that went 

down 
Into its cave, hath been abroad ; the stream. 
That was so silent, hark ! its murmuring voice 
Is round about us. Lilian too, to meet 
The voices and the breathing things she loved, 
Amid the sunshine and the springing joy 
Will rise again." — " Kind Heaven, I should have 

known. 
Though rust-embrown'd, yon breast-plate and 

yon helm, 
I should have known, though furrowy, sunk and 

wan. 
That face, though wreck'd and broken that tall 

form ; 
Prince Vortimer ! in maiden or in child. 
Fancies so sick and wild had been most sad, 
But in a martial and renowned chief, 
Might teach a trick of pity to a fiend. 
Oh, rryach abused! much injured, well, too well 
Hath that fell man the deed of evil wrought." — 
"Man, man! then there is man, whose blood 

will flow, 
Whose flesh will quiver under the keen steel,- 



512 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



Samor!"— And up he leap'd, as though he flung 
Like a dead load the dreamy madness off". 
"Samor! thou tranquil soul! that walk'st 

abroad 
With thy calm reason, and thy cloudless face 
Unchangeable, as a cold midnight star : 
Thou scarce wilt credit, I have found a joy 
In hurling stones down on that glassy tide, 
And with an angry and quick-dashing foot, 
Breaking the senseless smoothness, that me- 

thought 
Smiled wickedly upon me, and rejoiced 
At its own guilt and my calamity. 
But oh, upon a thing that feels and bleeds. 
And shrieks and shudders, with avenging arm 
To spring! Where is't and who ? good Samor, 

tell."— 
And Samor told the tale, and thus — "Brave 

youth, 
Not only from yon narrow turf, come up 
From Britain's every hill, and glen, and plain. 
Deep voices that invoke thee, Vortimer, 
To waken from thy woeful rest. Thy arm 
No selfish, close, and singular revenge 
Must nerve and freshen ; in thy country's cause. 
Not in thy own, that fury must be wreak'd." 

His answer was the brandishing his sword, 
Which he had rent down from the o'erhanging 

bough, 
And the infariate riot of his eye. 

" Oh, perilous your hazard," still went on 
Samor, " ye foes of freedom, ye take off 
Heaven's bonds from all our fiercer part of man. 
Ye legalize forbidden thoughts, the thirst 
Of blood ye make a glory, give the hue 
Of honour and self- admiration proud 
To passions murky, dark, unreconciled: 
The stern and Pagan vengeance sanctify 
To a Christian virtue, and our prayers, that 

mount 
Unto the throne of God, though harshly toned 
With imprecations, take their flight uncheck'd." 

But Vortimer upon the grassy bank 
Had fallen: "Not long, sweet spirit, oh not 

long, 
Shall violets be wanting on thy grave !" — 

Yet unaccompanied the Avenger past, — 
As though the wonted dark and solemn words, 
"Vengeance and Vigilance," had fix'd him 

there. 
Prince Vortimer remains by Eamont side, 

Samor ! the cities hear thy lonely voice 
Thy lonely tread is in the quiet vale, 
Thy lonely arm, amid his deep trench'd camp, 
The Saxon hears upon some crashing helm 
Breaking in thunder and in death. But thee, 
Why see I thee by Severn side ! what soft 
And indolent attraction wiles thee on. 
Even on this cold and gusty April day. 
To the sad desert of thy ancient home ! 
Why mingle for thyself the wormwood cup ? 
Why plunge into the fount of bitterness ? 
Or why, with sad indulgence, pamper up. 



Wilful the moody sorrow, and relax 

Thy high-strung spirit ? Oh, so near, no power 

Hath he to pass from those old scenes away. 

He must go visit every spot beloved, 

And think on joys, no more to be enjoy'd. 

Ruin is there, but ruin slow and mild. 
The spider's wandering web is thin and grey 
On roof and wall, here clings the dusky bat. 
And, where his infants' voices used to sound, 
The owlet's sullen flutter and dull chirp 
Come o'er him ; on his hospitable hearth 
The blind worm and slow beetle crawl their 

round. 
Yet is no little, light, and trivial thing, 
Without its tender memory ; first with kiss. 
Long and apparent sweet, the primrose bed 
He visits, where that graceful girl is laid. 
Then roves he every chamber; eye, and ear. 
And soul, all full of her, that is not there : 
Emeric haunts every where, there's not a door 
Her thin form hath not glided through, no stone 
Upon the chequer'd marble where her foot 
Hath never glanced, no window whence her eyes 
Have never gazed for him ; the walls have heard 
Her voice ; her touch, now deathly cold, hath 

been 
Warm on so many things ; there hangs, even 

now, 
The lute, from whence those harmonies she 

drew. 
So sphere-like sweet, they seem'd to drop from 

heaven. 
There, where the fox came starting out but now, 
There, circled with her infants, did she sit; 
And here the bridal couch, the couch of love, 
A little while, and then the bed of death. 
And lo that holy scroll of parchment, stamp'd 
With many a sentence of the word of God, 
Still open, Samor could not choose but read 
In large and brilliant characters emblazed. 
The Preacher's " Vanity of vanities." 

How like is grief to pleasure ! here to stay 
One day, one night, to see the eve sink down 
Into the water, with its wonted fall, 
'Tis strange temptation — and to gather up 
Sad relics. And the visionary night 1 
How will its airy forms come sliding down, 
Here, where is old famihar footing all, 
'Tis strange temptation. — But the White-horse 

flag 
Past waving o'er his sight, at once he thought 
Of that seal'd day of destiny, when his foot 
Should trample on its neck, and burst away. 

Oh secret traveller o'er a ruin'd land, 
Yet once more must I seek thee 'mid the drear, 
The desolate, the dead. On Ambri plain. 
On Murder's blasted place of pride. Might 

seem 
At distance 'twas a favour' d meadow, bright 
With richer herbage than the moorland brown 
Around it, the luxurious weeds look'd boon. 
And glanced their many-colours fleck'd with 

dew. 
Seen nearer, scatter'd all around appear'd 
Few rehcs of that sumptuous feas'l, the wrecks 



SAMOR. 



513 



Of lifeless things, that gaily glitter'd still, 
While all the living had been dark so long. 
Fragments of banners, and pavilion shreds, 
Or broken goblet here and there, or ring, 
Or collar on that day how proudly worn I 

A stolen and hurried burying had there been ; 
Here had the pious workman, as disturb'd 
At his imperfect toil, left struggling out 
A hand, whose bleach'd bones seem'd even yet 

to grasp 
The earth, so early, so untimely left. 
And here the grey flix of the wolf, here black 
Lay feathers of the obscene raven's wing, 
Showing, where they had marr'd the friutless 

toil. 
And uncouth stones bore here and there a name. 
Haply the vaunted heritage of kings. 

It was a sad and stricken place ; though day 
Was in the heaven, and the fresh grass look'd 

green. 
The light was wither'd, nor v^fas silence there 
A soothing quiet ; busy 'twas, and chill 
And piercing, rather absence of strong sound. 
Than stillness, like the shivering interval 
Between the pauses of a passing bell. 

Oh Britain ! what a narrow place confines 
Thy powerful and thyjirincely ! that grey earth 
Was what adorn'd and made thee proud : the 

fair, 
Whose beauty was the rapture of thy maids. 
The treasure of thy mothers : and the brave, 
Whose constant valour was thy wall of strength : 
The wealthy, whose air-gilding palace towers 
Made thee a realm of glory to detain 
The iioon-day sun in his career ; thy wise, 
Whose grave and solemn argument controU'd 
Thy councils, and thy mighty, whose command 
Was law in thy strong cities. Beauty, wealth, 
Might, valour, wisdom, mingled and absorb'd 
In one cold similarity of dust. 
One layer of white and silent ashes all. 
The air breathes of mortality ; abroad 
A spirit seems to hover, pouring in 
Dim thoughts of Doomsday to the soul ; steal up 
Voiceless sensations of eternity 
From the blank earth. Oh, is it there beneath 
Th' invisible everlasting ? or dispersed 
Among its immaterial kindred free, 
The elements? Oh man! man! fit compeer 
Of worms and angels, trodden under foot. 
Yet boundless by the infinite expanse 
f ether ! mouldering and immutable ! 

But thou, Avenger, in that quiet glebe. 
How many things are hid, once link'd to thee 
By ties more gentle than the coupling silk, 
Th;i.t pairs two snowy doves ! hands used to 

meet 
In lirotherly embrace with thine, and hearts 
Wherein thy image dwelt, clear, changeless, full 
As the Spring moon upon a crystal lake : 
Faces in feast, in council, and in fight. 
That took their colouring from thine. And thou 
Alone art breathing, moving, speaking here. 
Amid tlie cold, the motionless, the mute! 
C,5 



Among that solemn multitude of graves 
One woman hath her dwelling, round and round 
She wanders with a foot that seems to fear 
That it is treading over one beloved. 
She seems to seek what she despairs to find. 
There's in her eye a wild inquiring roll, 
Yet th' eye is stony. Oft she stops to hear. 
Then, as in bitter disappointment, shakes 
Her loose hair, and again goes wandering on. 
She shriek'd at Samor's presence, and flung up 
Her arms, and in her shriek was laughter. 

"Thou! 
What dost thou with that face above the earth. 
Thou shouldst be with the rest !" — " My friend's 

soft bride 
The dainty Evelene !" — " That's it, the name 
Wherewith the winds have mock'd me every 

morn, 
And every dusky eve — or was it then ? 
Ay then it was, when I was wont to sleep 
On a soft bed, and when no rough winds blew 
About me, when I ever saw myself 
Drest glitt'ringly, and there was something else 
Then, which there is not now." — " Thy Elidure, 
Sad houseless widow!" — "Hah: thou cunning 

man, 
'Twas that, 'twas that ! and thou canst tell me too 
Where they have laid him — well thou canst, I 

know 
There's deep connexion 'twixt my grief and thee. 
Thou, thou art he that wakest sleepers up. 
And send'st them forth along the cold bare heath, 
To seek the dark and disappearing. There 
Sound howhngs at the midnight bleak, and blasts 
Shivering and fierce. And there come peasant 

boors 
That bring the mourner bread, and weave (he 

roof 
Above her, of the brown and rustling fern ; 
But never sounds the voice, or comes the shape 
She sought for. Oh, my wakings and my sleeps 
How exquisite they were ! upon his breast 
I slept, and v.'hen I woke there smiled his face." 

Even as the female pigeon to her nest, 
All ruffled by rude winds and discomposed, 
Returning, with full breast sits brooding down, 
And all sinks smooth around her and beneath : 
So when the image of departed joy 
Revisited the heart of that sad wife, 
Settled to peace its wayward and distraught. 
Sweetly she spake, and unconfusedly heard. 
Of him the low, the undistinguish'd laid. 
Of Samor's friend, her bridegroom, Elidure. 
And somewhat of her pale and tender bloom 
With a faint flourishing enliven' d up 
The wither'd and the sunken in her cheek ; 
But when again alone, o'er heart and brain 
Flash'd back the wandering, recommenced the 

search 
Ever with broken questionings, and mute 
Lip-parted listenings, pauses at each grave, 
As though it were her right, where lay her lord, 
That some inherent consciousness should start 
Within her ; though 'tis nature's law, that one 
Cold undistinguish'd silence palls the dead, 
Yet. yet 'tis hard and cruel not to grant 
One low sound, even the likeness of a sound. 



514 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



To tell her where to lay her down and die. 
Sure there are spirits round her, yet all leagued 
To abuse and lead astray, and his, even his, 
Pitiless as the rest, with jealous care 
Concealing its felt presence. Ghostly night 
Wafts her no dusk inteUigence ; the day 
Shows nothing with its broad and glaring rays. 



BOOK X. 



BtJT thou from North to South hast ranged the 
isle, 
From >Skiddaw to the Cornwall sea-beat rocks, 
One icy face of desolation cold, 
One level sheet of sorrow and dismay. 
Avenger ! thou hast traversed, hast but held 
Companionship with mourners and with slaves. 

Upon the northern rocks of Cornwall meet 
Th' Avenger and the Warrior ; thus spake he : — 
" How name ye yon strong castle on the rock ?" 
" Tintagel, the prince Gorlois' towers." — "And 

whose 
Yon soldiers cresting with their camp the shore, 
And yon embattled navy on the sea, 
Rounding their moony circle?" "Mine!" — 

" And thou?" 
" Methinks, most solemn questioner, the helm 
Might well proclaim Pendragon." — "No, the 

front. 
Whereon that scaly blazon used to glow, 
Had ne'er been girding with unnatural siege 
A British castle, while all Britain lay 
In chains beneath the Stranger." — " What art 

thou. 
That beardest in thy high and taunting vein 
The Princes of the land?" — "A Prince!" — 

" Thus arm'd 
And thus attired!" — "Misjudging! must thou 

learn 
The actions are the raiment of the man ? 
Better to serve my country in worn weeds 
And dinted arms like mine, than 'gainst her sons 
To lace a golden panoply. This rust, 
'Tis Saxon blood, for thine, its only praise 
Is its bright stainlessness. Look not, fierce 

Prince, 
As from my veins its earliest spots should fall, 
'Tis Britain barbs the arrows that I speak. 
And makes thy heart its mark." — " What man 

or more 
Thus fires and freezes, angers and controls 
With the majestic valour of his tongue. 
The never yet controU'd, and bears the name 
Of Britain, hke a shield before him, broad 
And firm against my ripe and bursting wrath ? 
Samor ! come, honour'd warrior, to my armsj 
Oh shame to see, and seeing not to know 
The noblest of our isle." — " No arms may fold 
Samor within them, but a Briton's ; thou 
By this apostate war disownst the name. 
And leagues! dark alliance with her foes," 

" Ah, then thou knowst not, in yon rock is 
mew'd 



The crafty kite that hath my dove in thrall. 
My dove, my bride, my sweet Igerna; her 
That Gorlois with his privy talon swoop'd. 
The gentle, the defenceless, and looks down 
From his air-swinging eyrie on my wrath, 
That like the sea against that rooted rock. 
Lashes and roars in vain." — "Thy bride!"— 

" My bride. 
By holy words in saintly chapel spoke. 
And all before, the twilight meetings stolen. 
Upon the shelly beach, when came my bark 
Sliding with smooth oar through the soundless 

spray 
From the Armoric shore, and vows so fond 
The unfelt waters crept up round our feet ; 
All after, rapturous union undisturb'd. 
Her father's blessing on our bridal couch, 
Promise of infant pledges, all o'erthrown, 
All wither'd by that Gorlois, that low worm 
I were too proud to tread on heretofore ; 
He with some cold and antiquated plea 
Of broken compact by the sire, away 
Reft with a villain stealth th' ill-guarded gem, 
And hoards it in his lone and trackless cave." 

' ' A darker and more precious theft has been . 
This Britain has been stolen, this fair isle. 
This land of free-born Christian men become 
The rapine of fierce Heathens. Uther, hear. 
Hear, son of Constantine ! most dear the ties 
Of wedlock earthly woven, yet seal'd by God; 
But those that link us to our native land 
Are wrought out from th' eternal adamant 
By the Almighty. Oh ! thy country's call 
Loud with a thousand voices drowns the tone 
Of sweet complaining even from wife beloved- 
Forego the weaker, Uther, and obey 
The stronger duty." — " Bloodless man and cold, 
Or wrong I thee ; perchance the Saxon holds 
Thy Emeric, and my claims must cede to thine, 
Even as all beauties to that peerless star." — 

" Spare, Uther, spare thy taunting, she is safe ; 
Briton or Saxon harm not her." — " Tis well, 
Fair tidings ! — but thy shuddering brow looks 

white." 
" There's a cold safety, Uther, with the dead, 
There is where foes disturb no more, the grave." 
" Pardon me, friend — oh pardon — but my wife, 
She too will seek that undisturbed place. 
Ere yield to that pale craven's love ; if false 
She dare not live, and yet, oh yet she lives !" 

Uprose the Avenger, and his way he took 
To where the rock broke off abrupt and sheer. 
Before him yawn'd the chasm, whose depth of 

gloom 
Sever'd the island Castle from the shore : 
The ocean waves, as though but newly rent 
That narrow channel, tumbled to and fro, 
Rush'd and recoil'd, and sullently sent up 
An everlasting roar, deep echoed out 
From th' underworking caverns ; the white gulls 
Were wandering in the dusk abyss, and shone 
Faint sunlight here and there on the moist slate. 
The Castle drawbridge hung aloof, arm'd men 
Paced the stern ramparts, javelins look'd out, 
From embrasure and loop-hole arbalist 



SAMOR, 



515 



And bowstring loaded lay with weight of shaft 

Menacing. On the dizzy brink stood up 

Th' Avenger, like a Seraph when absolved 

His earthly mission, on some sunny peak 

He waits the gathering cloud, whereon he wont 

To charioteer along the azure space ; 

In vain he waits not, under his plumed feet. 

And round his spreading wings it floats, 

And sails off proudly with its heavenly freight. 

Even thus at Samor's call down heavy fell 

The drawbridge, o'er the abyss th' Avenger 

springs ; 
Tintagel's huge portcullis groaning up 
Its grooves gives way ; then up the jealous bridge 
Behind him leaps, the gate falls clashing down. 

Half wonder, and half fear, Pendragon shook 
The terrors of his crest, and gasping stood, 
As when a hunter is gone in to brave 
The bear within his shaggy den, down peers 
His fellow through the dusk, and fears to see 
What his keen eyes strain after. But elate 
Appear'd upon the rampart that tall Chief, 
Seeming on th' outpour'd garrison to cast 
Words potent as the fabled Wizard's oils. 
With the terrific smoothness of their fire 
Wide sheeting the hush'd ocean ; th' arbalist 
Discharged its unaim'd bolt, the arrow fell 
From the slack bowstring ; careless of his charge, 
The watchman from his turret lean'd, o'er all 
Bright'ning and stilling the high language spread. 
Giving a cast of pride to vulgar brows, 
Shedding o'er stupor and thick-breathing awe 
A solemn hue of glory : Far it spread 
Beyond the sphere of sound, th' indignant brow, 
The stately waving of the arm discoursed, 
Flovv'd argument from every comely limb 
x\nd the whole man was eloquence. From cliff, 
From bark gazed Uther's soldiery, one voice 
Held in suspense the wild and busy war. 
And on the motion of his lips the fate 
Of two strong armies hung. Anon the gate 
Flew up, the bridge lay shuddering o'er the 
chasm. 

Forth Samor comes, a Lady by his side, 
And Gorlois in the garb of peace behind. 
Tremblingly she came ghding on, and smooth. 
As the west wind o'er beds of flowers, a child 
Was with her : the cool freshness of the air 
Seem'd o'er her marble cheek to flush unused 
To breathe, and human faces o'er her threw 
A modest, faint disturbance. Uther rush'd 
To meet her, ere he came her failing frame 
Seem'd as it sought some breast to sink upon, 
Though feebly resolute, that none but his 
Should be the chosen resting-place. But he 
Severe withheld her. — "Can the snowdrop 

bloom 
Untainted on the hemlock bank ? near thee, 
Igerna, long hath trail'd a venomous plant, 
Hast thou the sullying influence 'scaped?" — She 

strove 
To work displeasure to her brow, the joy. 
The fondness would not give it place ; .she held 
Her boy on high, she pointed from the lines 
Of his soft face to Uther's, with appeal 
Half rapture, half reproach, and cast herself 



With timid boldness on her rightful couch, 
Her husband's bosom, that received her in, 
Even as the opening clouds an angel home 
Returning. But the joyous boy relax'd 
His features to a beautiful dehght ; 
To the fierce Dragon on his father's helm 
Lifting his sportive hand, and smoothing down 
The horrent scales, and looking with glad eye 
Into the fiery hollow of his jaws. 

Mute lay the armies, the pale Gorlois wrought 
His features to a politic joy, alone 
Stood Samor and aloof, he stood in tears. 
Samor, amid the plain of buried men 
Tearless, and in his own deserted home. 
In tears unveil' d before th' assembled camp ; 
It was so like a meeting after death, 
That union of the husband and the wife, 
So ghostly, so unearthly. Thus shall meet 
The disembodied, Emeric and himself. 
Not with rude rocks their footing, the cold airs 
And cloudy sunshine of this world around. 
But all of hfe must intervene, and all 
The long dark grave mysterious : yet even here 
It was a sweet impossibility, 
Wherewith at times his soul mad dalliance held. 
An earthly, bodily, sensible caress. 
Even long and rapturous, as that hanging now 
On Uther's neck from soft Igerna's arms. 

Upon the silence burst a voice that cried 
" Arthur," whereat the child his sport broke off 
With that embossed serpent, and stretch'd out 
His arms, where, on the fragment of a rock. 
Stood Merlin. " Arthur, hail ! hail, fatal Boy, 
Bright arrow from the bow of Destiny, 
Go forth upon thy fiery course ! the steeds 
Are in the meadows that shall bear thee forth, 
Thee and thy barbed chivalry ! the spears 
Are forged wherewith in tourney and in fight 
Ye shall o'erbear the vaunting Saxon ! shields 
Are stamping with your bright devices bold ; 
And Bards are leaning on their high-strung 

harps, 
Awaiting thee, to flower out in their boon 
And ripe fertility of song. Go forth. 
Strong reaper in the harvest of renown, 
Arthur ! the everlasting Lord of Fate 
Hath summon'd thee to thy immortal race !" 

The infant clapp'd his hands, Pendragon flung 
Aloft his scaly bickering crest, her child 
Igerna folded to her heart, and wept. 
And forward leap'd the Avenger to salute 
Snowdon's dark Prophet, Merlin was not there. 

Good fortune on good fortune followeth fast ; 
Tidings came rapid of a Breton fleet 
Seen on the southern shore ; the chiefs are past 
To where th' Archangel's Mount o'erlooks the 



Oh go not to thy couch, thou bright-hair'd Sun ! 
Though Ocean spread its welcoming breast, yet 

pause 
'Mid that etherial architecture wrought 
Around thee by thine own creative light. 
How broad the over-vaulting palace arch 



516 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



Spreads up the heavens with amethyst ceil'd, and 

hung 
With an enwoven tapestry of flame, 
Waved over by long banner, and emblazed, 
Like hall of old barbaric Potentate, 
With scutcheon and with shield, that now unfold, 
Now in their cloudy texture shift ; and paved 
With watery mosaic rich, the waves 
Quick glancing, like a floating surface, laid 
With porphyry and crystal interwrought. 
There's yet a sight, O Sun! to check awhile 
Thy setting ; lo, the faihng breezes lift 
The white wings of that fair Armoric fleet 
To catch the level lines of hght ; the oars 
Flash up the spray, that purples as it falls : 
While, wearing one by one, their armed freight 
They cast out on the surfy beach. The Kings, 
King Emrys and Armoric Hoel meet 
Pendragon, Samor, and their band of chiefs. 

There meet they on the land's extremest 
verge 
To conquer, to deliver, few, but strong. 
Strong in the sinews of the soul ; as rose 
The giant wrestler from his mother's breast, 
Earth-born Anteus, his huge Umbs refresh'd 
For the Herculean combat, so shall ye, 
Kings, Chiefs, and Warriors, from your native 

soil 
Drav/ to the immortal faculties of mind 
A springtide everlasting and unchanged. 
The armour of a holy cause outshines 
The iron or the knosped brass, and hopes 
And memories to the home-returning brave 
Crowding from every speck of sacred earth 
Outplead the trumpet's wakening blast, till leaps 
Vengeance to Glory's vanguard post, and leads 
The onset, and looks proudly down to see 
The red blood deepening round her laving feet. 

Alas, that in your harvest of high thoughts. 
Thick set with golden promise of renown, 
The poppy seeds of envy and distrust 
Should take their baleful root. Slow winds along 
Gorlois, the sower of that noxious crop. 
Scattering it in with careless toil ; now stands 
By royal Emrys' side, now mines beneath 
Pendragon's towery soul, now sadly warns 
With cautious words and dark speech broken ofT, 
Hoel, the crown' d Armorican ; his looks 
Belying his feign'd confidence of speech, 
But half surmising fear, and kiUing hope 
By his cold care of keeping it alive. 

" Not that I love not, whom all love, admire 
On whom the admiration of all hearts 
Falls with such free profusion, 'tis no shame 
For us mean lamps before great Samor' s light 
To wane and ghmmer in our faint eclipse. 
Yet whence this fettering of all eyes and hearts? 
This stern unsocial solitude of fame ? 
True, from that social banquet 'scaped he, true, 
Undaunted hath he roved the isle, nor doubt 
For some high purpose, that 'twere rash for us 
To search out with our dim and misty sight ; 
Nor think. King Emrys, I thy crown assert 
Unstably set upon thy royal brow. 
But there's a dazzling in its jewel' d round 



Might tempt a less self-mastering grasp. Who 

holds 
The souls of men in thraldom with his tongue, 
Makes bridges grow before him, stony walls 
Break up to give him way, — I speak not now 
In vengeance of Tintagel, 'twas a deed 
Most worth my richest praise, that made me friend 
To brave Pendragon. But ambition wreck'd 
The angels, and the chmbing soul of man 
Hath sinn'd for meaner gain than Britain's 

throne." — 

So one by one he wound his serpent coil 
Around the Chieftains' souls; and inly breathed 
The creeping venom. But Pendragon's heart, 
Too fiery or too noble to suspect, 
In Samor's teeth flung fierce th' oppressive doubt. 
Th' Avenger's tranquil smile was like the change 
Of aspect in a green and lofty tree 
Touch' d by the wings of some faint breeze, nor 

shakes 
The massy foliage, nor is quite at rest, 
While languidly the undisturbing air 
Falls away and expires. ' ' Will Emrys hold 
At midnight on St. Michael's Mount his pomp 
Of Coronation ? Samor will be there." 
" At midnight !" — " Ay, the fires will gaily blaze, 
The silent air is meet for solemn oaths." — 
The night is starless, soft and still, the heavens 
O'envoven with a thin and rayless mist; 
A long low heavy sound of breaking surge 
Roams down the shore, and now and then the 

woods 
Flutter and bend with one short rush of wind. 
The tide hath risen o'er the stony belt. 
That to the mainland links the Mount : where meet 
Even now the Chieftains, ocean all around, 
On every side the white and moaning waves. 
On the bare summit, 'neath the cope of heaven, 
The conclave stands, bare, save a lofty pile 
Of wood compacted like funereal pyre 
Of a departed hero in old time 
On some .^Egean promontory rear'd, 
Or by the Black inhospitable Sea. 

The crown is on king Emrys' head, his hair 
Is redolent with the anointing oil. 
"Hail, King of Britain!" — Samor cried, and 

"Hail!" 
Replied that band of heroes ; Hail ! the shores 
Echoed, from bark and tent came pealing up 
The universal Hail, the ocean waves 
Broke in with their hoarse murmur of applause. 

"Air, earth, and waters, ye have play'd your 
part. 
There's yet another element," — cried aloud 
Samor, and in the pyre he cast a brand. 
A moment, and uprush'd the giant fire, 
Piercing the dim heavens with its blazing brow, 
And on the still air shaking its red locks. 
There by its side the Vassals and their King, 
Motionless on their shadows huge and dun, 
Show'd Uke destroying Angels, round enwrapp'd 
In their careering pomp of flame ; far flash' d 
The yellow midnight day o'er shore and sea : 
The waves now ruddy heaved, now darkly 
plunged, 



SAMOR. 



517 



Upon the rocks, within the wavering light 
Strong featured faces fierce, and hard-hned forms 
Broke out and disappear'd ; the anchor'd fleet 
Were laving their brown sides in rainbow spray. 
No sound was heard, but the devouring flame, 
And the thick plashing waters. — "Keep your 

faith, 
(Cried Samor) ye eternal hills, and ye 
Heaven-neighbouring mountains!" — Eastward far 

anon 
Another fire rose furious up, behind 
Another and another : all the hills 
Each behind each held up its crest of flame ; 
Along the heavens the bright and crimson hue 
Widening and deepening travels on : the range 
O'erleaps black Tamar, by whose ebon tide 
Cornwall is bounded, and on Heytor rock, 
Above the stony moorish source of Dart, 
It waves a sanguine standard ; Haldon burns. 
And the red City* glows a deeper hue ; 
And all the southern rocks, the moorland downs 
In those portentous characters of flame 
Discourse, and bear the glaring legend on. 
Even to the graves on Ambri plain, where woke 
That palhd woman, and rejoiced, and deem'd 
'Twas sent to guide her to the tomb she sought. 
Fast flash they up, those altars of revenge. 
As the snake-tress'd Sister torch-bearers, 
Th' Eumenides, from the Tartarian depths 
Were leaping on from hill to hill, on each 
Leaving the tracks of their flame-dropping feet. 
Or as the souls of the dead fathers, wrapt 
In bright meteorous grave-clothes, had arisen, 
And each sate crowning his accuslom'd hill, 
Silent or radiant : or as th' isle devote 
Had wrought down by her bold and frequent guilt 
Th' Almighty's lightning shafts, now numberless 
Forth raining from the lurid reeking clouds, 
And smiting all the heights. On spreads the 

train, 
Nonhward it breaks upon the Quantock ridge, 
It reddens on the Mendip forests dark, 
It looks into the cavern'd Cheddar cliffs. 
The boatman on the Severn mouth awakes 
And sees the waters rippling round his keel 
In spots and streaks of purple light, each shore 
Ablaze with all its answering hills ; the streams 
Run glittering down P-linlimmon's side, though 

thick 
And moonless the wan night : and Idris stands 
Like Stromboli or ^tna, where 'twas feign'd 
E'er at their flashing furnace wrought the Sons 
Of Vulcan, forging with eternal toil 
.love's never idle thunderbolts. And thou, 
Snowdon. the king of mountains, art not dark 
Amid thy vassal brethren gleaming bright. 
Is it to welcome thy returning Seer, 
That thus above thy clouds, above thy snows 
Thou wear'st that wreathed diadem of fire. 
As to outshine the pale and winking stars? 
O'er Menai's waters blue the gleaming spreads, 
The Bard in Mona's secret grove beholds 
A ghtter on his harp-strings, and looks out 
Upon the kindling cUffs of Penmanmawr. 
Is it a pile of martyrdom above 
Clwyd's green vale ? beside the embers bright 



* Caer rulti, Exeter. 



Stands holy Germain, as a saint new come 

From the pure inansions of beatitude, 

The centre of a glory, that spreads round 

Its film of thin pellucid gold. Nor there 

Pauses the restless Messenger, still on 

Vaults it from rock to rock, from peak to peak. 

Far seen it shimmer'd on Caer Ebranc wall, 

And Malwyn blew a bugle blast for joy. 

The sun uprising sees the dusk night fled 

Already irom tall Pendle, and the height " 

Of Ingleborough, sees Helvellyn cast 

A meteor splendour on the mountain lakes, 

Like mirrors of the liquid molten brass. 

The brightest and the broadest and the last, 

There flakes the beacon glare, and in the midst 

Dashing the ruddy sparkles to and fro 

With the black remnant of a pine-tree stem. 

Stands arm'd from head to foot Prince Vortimer. 



BOOK XI, 



Mi&HTY in thy endurance, in revenge 

Mightier ! thou shakest thy dusky patience off, 

O Britain I as a snake its wither'd skin. 

That boastful to the sunshine coils and spreads 

In bright and cruel beauty. Not in vain 

Have those wild beacons rear'd their fires, thoH 

wakest. 
The slumber falls from thee, as dewdrops shed 
From the morn-kindling falcon's wing. On hill. 
In vale, in forest and in moor, in field 
And city, hke the free and common air. 
Like the wide-spreading golden hue of dawn. 
Ranges the boundless passion uncontroll'd. 
The " Vigilance," hath droop' d absorb' d away 
From the fierce war-cry, one portending word 
'•■ Vengeance," rides lonely upon all the winds. 

Alas, delicious Spring ! God sends thee down 
To breathe upon his cold and perish'd works 
Beauteous revival ; earth should welcome thee. 
Thee and the West wind, thy smooth paramour, 
With the soft laughter of her flowery meads, 
Her joys, her melodies. The prancing. stag 
Flutters the shivering fern, the steed shakes out 
His mane, the dewy herbage silver-webb'd 
With frank step trampling ; the wild goat looks 

down 
From his empurpling bed of heath, where break 
The waters deep and blue with crystal gleams 
Of their quick-leaping people : the fresh lark 
Is in the morning sky, the nightingale 
Tunes evesong to the dropping waterfall. 
Creation lives with loveliness, all melts 
And trembles into one mild harmony. 
Man, only harsh and inharmonious Man, 
Strews for thy delicate feet the battle field. 
Makes all thy smooth and flowing airs to jar 
With his hoarse trumpetings, scares thy sweet 

light 
With gleams of violent and angry brass. 

Away ! it is a yearly common joy, 
A rapture that ne'er fails the solemn Sun 
In his eternal round, the blossoming 



518 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



And fragrance of the green resolving earth. 
But a fresh springtide in the human soul, 
A nation from its wintry trance set loose, 
The bursting ice of servitude, the bloom 
Of freedom in the wither'd mind obscure, 
The bleakness of the heart discomfited, 
And over the bow'd shape and darkling brow 
The flowering out of faded glories, sounds 
Of cheering and of comfort to the rent 
And broken by the tyrannous northern blast, 
These are earth's rich adornings, these the choice 
Of nature's bounteous and inspiring shows. 
Therefore the young Sun with his prime of light 
Shall beam on ensigns ; the blithe airs shall waft 
Jocund the lofty pealing battle words ; 
And not unwelcome, fierce crests intercept 
The spring-dews from the thirsty soil ; the brass 
For vestment the admiring earth shall wear 
More proud than all her flowery robe of green. 

In all the isle was flat subjection tame. 
In all the isle, hath Freedom rear'd her, plumed 
With terror, sandal'd with relentlessness : 
Her march like brazen chariots, or the tramp 
Of horsemen in a rocky glen ; and clouds 
Of javelins in her front, and in her rear 
Dead men in grisly heaps, dead Saxons strewn 
Upon their trampled White Horse banners: them 
Her fury hath no time to scorn, no pause 
To look back on her deathful deeds achieved, 
While aught remains before her to achieve. 
Distract amid the wide spread feast of blood. 
The wandering raven knows not where to feed. 
And the gorged vulture droops his wing and 
sleeps. 

War hath the garb of holiness, bear proof. 
Thou vale of Clwyd, to our cold late days. 
By the embalming of tradition named, 
Maes Garmon, of that saintly Bishop. He 
His grey thin locks unshaken, his slow port 
Calm as he trod a chapel's rush-strewn floor. 
Comes foremost of his Christian mountaineers, 
Against th' embattled Pagans' fierce array. 
By the green margin of the stream, the band 
Of Arngrim ghtter in the morning light. 
Their shadowy lances line the marble stream 
With long and level rules of trembling shade ; 
The sunshine falling in between in streaks 
Of brightness. They th' unwonted show of war 
Behold slow winding down the wooded hill. 

"Now by our Gods," cried Arngrim, "dis- 
content 
To scare our midnight with their insolent fires. 
They break upon our calm and peaceful day." 
But silent as the travel of the clouds 
At breathless twilight, or a flock that winds, 
Dapphng the brown cliff" with its snowy specks, 
Foldward along the evening dews, a bell 
Now and then tinkhng, faintly shrill, come on 
Outspreading on the meadow the stern band 
Of Britons with their mitred Captain ; front 
Opposed to front they stand, and spear to spear. 
Then Germain clasp'd his hands and look'd to 

heaven. 
Then Germain in a deep and solemn tone 
Cried " Alleluia !" answer was flung back : 



From cliff" and cavern, " Alleluia," burst; 

Itseem'd strong voices broke the bosom'd earth, 

Dropt voices from the clouds, and in the rush 

Of waters was a human clamour,* far 

Swept over all things in its boundless range 

The scattering and discomfiting appeal : 

' Twas shaken from the shivering forest leaves, 

Ceaseless and countless, lifeless living things 

Multiplied, " Alleluia," all the air 

Was that one word, all sounds became that. 

sound. 
As the broad lightning swallows up all lights. 
All quench'd in one blue universal glare. 

On rush'd the Britons, but 'gainst flying foes, 
Quick smote the Britons, but no breast-plate 

clove 
Before them, then the ignominious death 
First through the back found way to Saxon 

hearts. 

Oh, Suevian forests! Clwyd's vale beholds 
What ye have never witness' d, Arngrim's 

flight- 
Fleet huntsman, thou art now the deer, the herd, 
Whereof thou wert the prime and lofty horn'd, 
Are faUing fast around thee, th' unleash'd dogs 
Of havoc on their reeking flanks and thee. 
The herdsman of the meek and peaceful goats, 
Thee, the soft tuner of the reedy flute 
•Beside Nantfrangon's stony cataract, 
Mordrin pursues. So strong that battle word 
Its holy transmutation and austere 
Works in the soul of man, the spirit sheathes 
In the thrice folding brass of valour, swells 
The thin and lazy blood t' a current fierce 
And torrent hke, and in the breast ere while 
But open to the tremulous melting airs 
Of passions gentle and aff"eolions smooth, 
Plants armed hopes and eagle-wing'd desires. 
Therefore that youth his downy hand hath 

wreathed 
In the strong Suevian's knotted locks, drawn up 
Like a wrought helm of ebon ; therefore fix 
His eyes, more used to swim in languid light, 
With an implacable and constant stare 
Down on the (ace of Arngrim, backward drawn, 
As he its writhing agony enjoy'd; 
And therefore he, whose ivont it was to bear 
The many sparkling crystal, or the cup 
Of dripping water lily from the spring 
To the blithe maiden of his love, now shakes 
A gory and dissever' d head aloft, 
And bounds in wild ovation down the vale. 

But in that dire and beacon-haunted night 
King Vortigern his wonted seat had ta'en 
Upon Caermerddhyn's topmost palace tower. 
There, the best privilege of greatness fall'n. 
He saw not, nor was seen : there wrapt in gloom, 
'Twas his soul's treasured luxury and choice joy 
To frame out of himself and his drear state. 
Dark comfortable likenesses, and full 
And frequent throng' d they this wild midnight. 
All cloudy and indistinct lay round ; the sole 
Dull glimmering like to light was what remain'd 



* Hollinshed, Book 5, Chap. 6. 



S A M R , 



519 



Of day, just not so utterly extinct 

And quench' d as yet to show splendour had been, 

And was not ; the dusk simile of himself 

Delighted, royal once, now with a mock 

And mimic of his lustre haunted. Why, 

Why should not human glory wane, since clouds 

Put out the immortal planets in the sky ? 

Why should not crowns have seasons, since the 

moon 
Hath but her hour to queen it in the heavens ? 
Why should not high and climbing souls be lost 
In the benighting shroud of the world's gloom ? 
Lo, one inglorious, undistinguish'd night 
Gathers the ancient mountains in its train, 
While e'er the dunnest and most turbulent clouds 
Thicken upon the statehest ; but beneath 
The lowly and contented waters lie 
Asleep upon their weedy banks, yet they 
Have all the faint blue brightness that remains. 
Then moodier the fantastic humour grown, 
Stoop'd upon mean' and trivial things, them too 
Wrought to his wayward misanthropic scope. 
Amid the swaying and disturbed air 
The rooks hung murmuring on the oak-tree tops. 
As plaining their uneasy loftiness. 
While, solitary as himself, the owl 
Sate caUing on its deaf and wandering mate. 
Him at that sound seized merriment, that made 
The lip drop, the brow writhe. " Howl on," he 

cried, 
'' Howl for thy dusky paramour," — and turn'd 
To where Rowena's chamber casements stood, 
Void, silent, dark of their once-brilliant lights. 

Sudden around 'gan spire the mountain tops 
Each with its intertwisted sheaf of flame, 
South, North and Eas/ and West, fire every 

where. 
Every where flashing and tumultuous light. 
Then gazed the unking'd, then cried out the fallen, 
" Now, by my soul, when comets gaze on kings 
Even from the far and vaulting heavens, 'tis faith 
There's hoUowness beneath their tottering thrones; 
But when they flash upon our earth, and stare 
Close in our faces, 'tis ripe time and full 
For palaces to quake and royal tombs 
To ope their wide and all-receiving jaws. 
What is't to me ? ye menace at the great ! 
Ye stoop not to be dangerous and dread, 
O haughty and mysterious lights ! to thrones 
Low and despised like mine ; in earlier days 
Vortigern would have quail'd, he mocks you now. 
Ye are not of the heavens, I know, I see. 
Discomfitures of darkness, Conquerors 
Of midnight, ye are of the earth. Why stands 
Caermerddhyn and the realm of Dyfed black 
Amid this restless multitude of flames ? 
'Tis not for idle or for fruitless show 
That with such splendid violation, Man 
Infringeth on stern nature's laws, and rends 
From night her consecrate and ancient pall ! 
Samor, thy hand is there ! and Vortigern 
Hath not yet learnt the patience cold and tame 
To be outblazed and stifled thus." — Down past 
The Monarch from his seat ; few minutes fled, 
And lo, within that Palace all look'd red, 
And hurried with a deep confusing glare : 
And over it a vaulting dome of smoke 



Surging arose and vast, till roaring out 
Columns of mounting fire sprung up, and all 
Whelm' d in one broad envelopement of flame, 
Stood; as when in heroic Pagan song 
Apollo to his Clariaii temple came ; 
At once the present Godhead kindled all 
Th' elaborate architecture, glory-wreathed 
The pillars rose, the sculptured architrave 
Swam in the liquid gold, the worshipper 
Within the vestibule of marble pure. 
Held up his hand before his blinded eyes, 
And so adored : but th' unconsuming fire 
Innoxious ranged th' unparching edifice. 
But ne'er was Palace or was Monarch seen 
More in that City, one a smouldering heap 
Lay in its ashes white ; how went the King 
And whither, no one knew, but He who knows 
All things. 'Twas frequent in the vulgar tale, 
None saw it, yet all knew them well that saw,"* 
At midnight manifest a huge arm came 
Forth from the welkin ; once it waved and twice, 
And then it was not : but a bolt thrice fork'd 
Each fork a spike of flame, burst on the roof, 
And all became a fire, and all fell down 
And smoulder'd, even as now the shapeless walla 
Lie in scorch'd heaps and black. At that same 

hour 
A dark steed and a darker rider past, 
With speed bemocking mortal steed, or man, 
Down the steep hill precipitous : 'twas like 
In shape and hue black Favorin, on whose back 
King Vortigern was wont to ride abroad ; 
Like, surely not the same, for fire came out 
From under his quick hoofs, and in his breath, 
And sulphurous the blasted foot-tracks smelt, 
Some dinted deep in the hard rock, soiue sear'd 
On meadow grass, where never since have deW3 
Lain glittering, never the fresh verdure sprung. 

Now is the whole Isle war. But I must crave 
Pardon from those in meaner conflict slain, 
Or conquerors ; Poesy's fair treasure-house 
Contains not all the bright and rich, that gem 
The course of humankind ; in heaven alone 
Preserves enroU'd th' imperishable brass, ' 

In letters deep of amaranthine light. 
All martyrs to their country and their God. 

Oh that my spirit, holding the broad glass 
Of its invention, might at once condense 
All rays of glory from the kindling Isle 
Full emanating, as of old 'tis famed 
The philosophic Syracusan caught 
The wide diverging sunbeams, by the force 
Of mind creating to himself a right 
And property in nature's common gifts, 
And domineering the free elements. 
He that heaven-seized artillery pour'd forth 
To sear the high beaks of the 'sieging fleet, 
That burnt, unknowing whence, 'mid the wet 

waves. 
So I the fine immortal light would pour 
Abroad, in the long after-time to beam 
A consecrate and vestal fire, to guide 
Through danger's precipices wild, the slopes 
Sleepy and smooth of luxury and false bliss. 



* Henry Huntingdon, Hist. 



520 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



All lovers of their country. They my song 

Embosoming within their heart of heart, 

Like mine own Samor should bear on, too strong 

To perish, and too haughty to despair. 

They happier, he uprearing on the sand 

A Pharos, steady for a while to stem 

The fierce assaulting waves, in after times 

To fall ; they building for eternity 

Britain's rock-founded temple of renown. 

In the Isle's centre is a champain broad. 
Now broken into corn-field and smooth mead, 
Near which a hill, now with the ruin'd towers 
Of Coningsborough (from that fight of Kings 
Named in old Saxon phrase,) soars crested. Dune 
Skirts with her azure belt the level plain. 

Morn dawn'd with all her attributes, the slow 
Impearling of the heavens, the sparkling white 
On the webb'd grass, the fragrant mistiness. 
The fresh airs with the twinkling leaves at sport, 
And all the gradual and emerging light. 
The crystalline distinctness setthng clear. 
And all the wakening and strengthening sound. 

There dawn'd she on a battle-field superb. 
The beauty that is war's embellishment. 
The splendour under whose quick-glancing pall 
Man proudly moves to slay and to be slain, 
How wonderful ! In semicircle huge. 
Round that hill foot, the Saxon camps his strength, 
A many-colour'd dazzling cirque, more rich 
Than the autumnal woods, when the quick winds 
Shake on them broken sunlight, than the skies 
When thunder clouds are bursting into light, 
And rainbow-skirted hangs each fold, or fringed 
With liquid gold, so waved that crescent broad 
With moving fire, bloom'd all the field with brass : 
-Making of dread voluptuousness, the sense 
Of danger in deep admiration lost — 
Oh beauteous if that morning had no eve ! 

The Eastern horn, his tall steeds to his car 
Harness'd, whose scythes shone newly burnish'd, 

held 
Caswallon ; he his painted soldiery. 
Their naked breasts bhie-gleaming with uncouth 
And savage portraitures of hideous things, 
Human and monstrous terribly combined, 
Array'd ; himself no armour of defence 
Cumber'd, as he were one Death dare not slay, 
A being from man's vulgar lot exempt, 
Commission'd to destroy, yet dangerless 
Amid destruction, against whom war shower' d 
All its stored terrors, but still baffled back 
Recoil' d from his un wounded front serene. 

The centre were the blue-eyed Germans, loose 
Their fierce hair, various each strong nation's 

arms, 
A wild and terrible diversity 
In the fell skill of slaughter, in the art 
Of doing sacrifice to death. Some helm'd 
Whose visors like distended jaws appear'd 
Of sylvan monster, some in brinded furs 
Wrapt shaggy, on whose shoulders seem'd to 

ramp 
Yet living the fix'd claws; with cross-bows some. 



Some with long lances, some with falchions 

curved. 
The Arian, wont to make the sable night 
A pander to his terrors,* in swarth arms 
He bursting from the forest, when the shades 
Were deepest, like embodied gloom advanced. 
Shaped for some dreadful purpose, now he moved 
Unnatural 'mid the clear and golden day. 
Here Hengist, Horsa there amid the troop 
Wound their war-horses ; he his weapon fell 
Shook, around ball of iron spikes chain'd loose 
To a huge pike-stave, hke a baleful star, 
Aye gleaming devastation in its sweep ; 
Hengist begirt with that famed falchion call'd 
The " Widower of Women ;" over all 
The fatal White Horse in the banner shone. 
Round to the left Argantyr with the Jutes 
And Anglians; these for Offa's slaughter wild 
T' exact the usurious payment of revenge; 
He sternly mindful of that broken fight 
By Wye's clear stream, and his defrauded sword 
Of its hope-promised banquet, Samor's blood. 
Above the multitude of brass the heights 
Were crowded v/ith the wives and mothers, t they 
With their known presence working shame of 

flight. 
And the high fear of being thought to fear. 
With them the spoils of Britain, vessels carved, 
Statues, and vestments of the Tyrian dye. 
Standards with antique legend scroll'd of deeds 
Done in old times, and gorgeous arms, and cups 
And lamps, and plate, or by fantastic art 
Minister'd to fond luxury's wayward choice. 
Or consecrate to th' altar use of God. 

And there the Saxon Gods, the wood and stone 
Whereto that people knelt and deified 
Their own hands' work ; the Father of the race, 
Woden, all arm'd and crown'd; the tempest 

Lord, 
The thunder-shaking Thor,t twelve radiant stars, 
His coronet, and sceptred his right hand ; 
He on his stately couch reclining : fierce 
In his mysterious multitude of signs, 
Arminsul; and th' Unnameable,^ he fix'd 
On his flint pedestal, his skeleton shape 
Garmented scantily in a winding-sheet, 
And in his hand a torch-blaze, meet to search 
Earth's utmost, while in act to spring, one hand 
Upon his head, upon his shoulder one, 
His faithful Lion rarnp'd in sculptured ire. 
Southward; with crescent its out-stretching horns 
Circling the foe, lay stretch' d the British camp ; 



* Ceterum Arii super vires, quibus enumerates paulio 
ante populos antecedunt, truces, insitEe feritati arte ac 
tempore Unodnantur; nigra scuta, tincta corpora : atras 
ad prcelia noctes legunt : ipsaque formidine alque 
umbra feralis exercitus terrorem inferunt, nuilo bos- 
tium sustinente novum ac velut infernum aspectum : 
nam primi in omnibus prceliis oculivincuntur.— Tacit. 
Oerm. c. 43. 

t— et in pro.\inio pignora : unde feminarum ululatus 
audiri, unde vagitus infantium ; hi cuique sanctissimi 
testes, hi maximi laudatores. Ad matres, ad conjuges 
vulnera ferunt : nee illae numerare, aut exigere plagas 
pavent. Cibosque et hortamina pugnantibus gestant. 
— Tacit. Oerm. 

tVerstegan. J Verstegan, 



SAMOR, 



531 



The centre held King Emrys, on the right 

Pendragon, on the left th' Armoric King, 

With all his tall steeds and brave riders ; they 

The fathers of that famed chivalric race 

Of knights and ladies, glorious in old song, 

White-handed Iseult, Launcelot of the Lake, 

Chaste Perceval, that won the Sangreal quest. 

But every where and in all parts alike 

The Avenger held his post ; all heard his voice, 

All felt his presence, all obey'd his sway. 

As western hurricane whirls up from earth. 

And bears where'er it will, the loose-sheaf 'd corn, 

The fluttering leaves, the shatter'd forest boughs, 

Even so his spirit seized and bore along, 

And swept with it those proud brigades. Nor 

there 
Was not young Malwyn, he his helmet wore 
Light shadow' d by an eagle plume, so sued 
His sire, lest in the wildering battle met 
Their cars should clash in impious strife, nor 

sought 
The father more obedience from the son, 
For Britain and with Samor fix'd to war. 
And in his brown and weather-beaten arms 
Came Vortimer, a pine-tree stem his mace 
That clove the air with desultory sweep. 
But by the river browsed a single steed, 
Sable as one of that poetic pair. 
On the fair plain of Enna, in the yoke 
Of Pluto, when Proserpina let fall 
From her soft lap her flowers, and mourn' d their 

loss 
Lavish, not for herself reserved her tears. 
The horseman, not unlike that ravisher. 
Wore kingly aspect, and his step and mien 
Were as his realm were in a gloomier clime, 
Amid a drearier atmosphere, 'mid things 
Sluggish and melancholy, slow and dead. 
As though disclaim' d by each, and claiming none, 
He lay with cold impartial apathy 
Eyeing both armies, as their fates to him 
Were equal, and not worth the toil of hope. 

But over either army silence hung. 
Silence long, heavy, deep, as every heart 
Were busied with eternity ; all thoughts 
Were bidding farewell to the Sun, whose rise 
They saw, whose setting they might never see. 
And all the heavens were thinly overdrawn 
With light and golden clouds, as though to couch 
The angels and the spirits floating there. 
While heaven the lucid hierarchy pour'd forth 
To view that solemn spectacle beneath, 
A Battle waged for freedom and for faith. 

First rose a clamour and a crowding rush 
On the hill side, and a half-stifled cry, 
" The Prophetess ! the Prophetess !" was heard. 
Upon a wagon, 'mid her idol Gods, 
She of the seal'd hp and the haunted heart, 
The aged Virgin* sate ; her thin grey hair 
And hollow eyes in a strange sparkling steep' d : 
Twice in the memory of the oldest spake 
Her voice, when Gothic Alaric had set 



His northern ensign on Rome's shatter'd walls, 
That day along the linden-shadow'd Elbe 
She went, with bitter smile and broken song 
That mock'd at grandeur fall'n and pride in dust. 
Once more, when Vortigern in that famed feast 
Crown' d the fierce Hengist ; in the German woods 
She roam'd with lofty and triumphal tone. 
Shrieking of sceptres dancing in her sight. 
And Woden's sons endiadem'd that rose 
And swept and glitter' d past her. Now with eye 
Restless, and churning hp, she sate, and thrice 
She mutter' d—" Flight! Flight! Flight!" Then 

look'd she out 
Upon the orient Sun, and cried, "Down! 

down !" — 
Then westward turn'd she, and withdrew her 

hand, 
From dallying with her loose and hanging chin. 
And beckon' d to the faint remaining haze 
Of twilight. "Back, fair darkness, beauteous 

gloom. 
Back!" Still the Sun came on, the shades 

dispell'd. 
Then rose she up, then on the vacant space 
Between both armies fix'd her eye ; half laugh. 
Half agony her cheek relax'd. — " I see, 
I see ye, ye Invisible ! I hear, 
Soundless, I hear ye ! Choosers of the slain ! 
Ye of the white forms horsed on thunder clouds ! 
Ye of Valhalla ! colourless as air, 
As air impalpable ! wind on aild urge 
Your sable and self-govern' d steeds : They come, 
They whom your mantling hydromel awaits. 
Whose cups are crown'd, the guests of this night's 

feast. 
They come, they come, for whom the Gods shall 

leap 
From their cloud thrones, and ask ye whom ye 

bring 
In stern troops crowding to their secret joy." 
She shook her low dropt lip, and thus went on % 
" The bow is broken, and the shafts are snapt : 
The lance is shiver' d, and the buckler rent ; 
The helm is cloven, and the plumes are shed ; 
The horse hath founder'd, and the rider fallen ; 
The Crown'd are crownless, kingdomless the 

Kings ; 
The Conquerors conquer'd, and the Slayers slain ; 
One falls not, but he shall not stand, the axe 
Shall glean th' imperfect harvest of the sword ; 
The scaffold drinks the lees of battle's cup ; 
And one is woundless amid myriad wounds. 
And one is wounded where there is but one. 
Ho, for the broad-horn'd Elk that leads the herd. 
Ho, for the Pine that tops the shattering wood ! 
Ho, for the Bark that admirals all the fleet ! 
The herd is scatter'd, and the Elk unscathed, 
The wood is levell'd, upright is the Pine, 
The fleet is wreck'd, the Admiral on the waves. 
That Elk is in himself a sacrifice. 
That Pine shall have a storm its own, that Bark 
Shall perish in a solitary wreck, 
A sacrifice of shame ! a storm of dread I 
A bitter ignominious solitude !" — 

, _, , -. . She had not ended, when a single steed 

* Vetere apud Germanos more, quo plerasque femi- „ _ . . , r> • • i ,• ■ ^ n- i^^ 

narum fatidicas, et augescente superstitione, arbitran- ' Burst furious from the British Ime, with flight 
tur deas.— Tac. Hist. 4—61. That had a tread of air, and not of earth. 

66 



532 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Fierce and direct he whirl'd to the hot charge 
His youthful Rider. Upright sate the Boy 
Arthur, at first with half reverted look, 
As to his mother to impart his joy, 
His transport. Early, oh fame-destined Child, 
Putst thou thy sickle in the field of fame. • 
Over his head a dome of fiery darts 
And cross-bow bolts vault o'er th' encumber'd air. 
Yet forward swept the child his rapid charge, 
And all at once to rescue all the Chiefs 
Rush'd onward: Uther's dragon seem'd to sear 
The winds with its hot waving, Emrys struck 
His courser's reeking flanks, his weapon huge 
Rear'd Vortimer, and Malwyn's wheels 'gan 

whirl. 
And on the other side Argantyr tall, 
Hengist and Horsa, all the tilled brave, 
Burst from their tardy lines, that vast behind 
Came rolling in tumultuous order on ; 
As when at spring-time under the cold pole 
T'wQ islands high of ice warp heavy and huge 
Upon the contrary currents, first th' assault 
The promontories break, till meet the whole 
With one long crash, that wakes the silence, there 
Seated since time was born, far off and wide 
Rock'd by the conflict fierce old ocean boils. 

Still th' upright Child seem'd only to rejoice 
In the curvetings of his wanton steed. 
And in the mingled dazzUng of bright arms. 
But over him a shield is spread, before 
A sword is waved, on every side the shield 
Dashes rude death aside, whirls every where 
The rapid and unwearied sword ; the rein 
■Of the fleet steed hath Samorgrasp'd, and guides 
Amid the turmoil. As when the eagle sire 
Up in the sunshine leads his daring young. 
Sometimes the dusk shade of his wing spreads 

o'er, 
And soft and broken in through the thick plumes 
■Gleams the unblinding splendour. So secure 
Waged that fair Child his early war. But wild 
The wavering fray rock'd to and fro, and burnt 
Like one huge furnace the quick-flashing plain. 
Ever as 'twere the same the Apostle saw 
In the Apocalypse, Death's own pale steed. 
Over the broad fight shook the White Horse, 

spread 
Where'er its gleaming lighten'd the dun gloom, 
Steamy and vast the curdling slaughter pools. 
And such confusion burst around of hues 
Mi^ghng and interchanging. Valour found 
No space for proud selection, forced to strike 
What cumber'd and obstructed its free path, 
To hew out through a mass of vulgar hfe 
A passage to some princely foe ; twice met 
Horsa and Vortimer, Argantyr twice 
Smote at Pendragon, but the whirlpool fierce 
Asunder swept them, and the deep of war 
Swallow'd them; many a broad and shapeless 

chasm 
Was rent in either battle, but new fronts 
Rush'd in and made the shiver'd surface whole. 
The sun was shut out by a sphere of dust 
That rapt the tumult, 'twas no sight for Heaven 
That rending and defacing its prime work, 
That waste of man, its masterpiece. But far 
Th' Avenger had borne off the Child, his steed 



First drew his breath before Igerna's tent. 
With her soft face upon the dust she lay. 
Struggling to hush her own lament, in hope 
From the fierce din of war might haply come 
Some sound of cheer and comfort ; but when full 
It rush'd upon her hearing, loud she shriek'd 
To drown the very noise she strove to hear. 
But when her Child's voice sounded, she look'd up 
With a cold glance which said, " That sound I've 

heard 
Every sad moment since he went, my soul 
Is sick of self-deception, will not trust 
Again, to be again beguiled." She saw, 
And forced a sportive look to her sad face 
To lure him to her snowy arms. While he 
Back to the battle, as a scene of joy, 
Look'd waywardly, she clasp'd hitn to her breast 
With a fond anger, and both smiled and wept. 
A moment Samor gazed on her, and — " All, 
All have their hopes, and all those hopes fulfill' d, 
But I, this side the grave, no hope for me 
And no fulfilment." — Fast as sight could track 
The battle felt him in its thousand folds. 

But the undistinguish'd and chance- mingled 

fight 
Brook'd not young Malwyn ; he his virgin shield 
Disdain'd mean blood should stain : where Hen 

gist fought 
He swept, the Saxon saw the eagle plume 
And turn'd aloof, and on some other head 
Discharged the blow for him uprear'd. But he 
Next plunged where Horsa' s star-like weapon 

shone. 
Disastrous, shaking ruin, yet even that 
Glanced aside from the eagle plume. The Boy 
Utter'd a wrathful disappointed cry. 
And 'gainst Argantyr drove his car. He paused, 
And cried aloud, "The eagle plume," and 

plunged 
Elsewhere for victims. That Pendragon heard, 
Even as he toil'd the third time to make way 
Amid the circling slain to the Anglian crest, 
And taunting thus, — " Methinks the eagle plume 
Hath some few feathers of the dove, so soft 
Spreads its peace-breathing influence." But the 

Youth, 
" Ha, Father! thus, thus guilest thou to a faint 
And infamous security thy son ? 
Thus enviest thou a noble foe ? thus guardst 
With a base privilege from peril ? Off, 
Coward distinction ! off, faint-hearted sign !" 
And helm and plume away he rent, his hair 
Curl'd down his shoulders, radiant on his brow 
The beauty of his anger shone, the pride 
Of winning thus a right to glorious death. 
Then set he forth on his bold quest again 
Impatient. Him Prince Vortimer beheld 
Sweeping between himself and Horsa, met 
Their sea-shore fight by Thanet to renew ; 
But something of his sister in his face. 
Something of Lilian harden' d and grown fierce, 
As that ungodly creed were true, and she 
Familiar to rude deeds of blood, had come 
One of Valhalla's airy sisters hence 
To summon him she loved. That gleam of her, 
That though ungentle and unfeminine touch, 
Exquisite, in mid-air his rugged mace 



SAMOR. 



523 



Suspended ; but fierce Horsa on the Boy, 

Just on his neck let fall the fatal spikes, 

And him the affrighted steeds bore off. But then 

Began a combat over which Death seem'd 

To hover, as of one assured, in hope 

Of bothior victims at his godless shrine. 

Then wounded and bareheaded Malwyn urged 
On Hengjst hisremaster'd steeds, the scythe 
Rased his majestic war-horse. But aside 
He sprung, and flank'd the chariot ; long the strife, 
Long though unequal, like a serpent's tongue 
Vibrated Malwyn's battle-axe, twice bow'd 
The Monarch to his saddle-bow. — 'Twas fame 
More splendid, thus with Hengist to have fought 
Than to have conquer'd hosts of meaner men. 
Heavy at length and fatal glided in 
The wily Chief's eluding falchion stroke ; 
Fast flew the steeds, the Master lay behind, 
Dragging with his face downward, still the reins 
Cling in his cold and failing fingers, trail 
His neck and spread locks in the humid dust. 
His sharp arms character the yielding sand. 
On fly they, him at length deserting mute 
And gasping on the bank, their hot hoofs plunge 
Into the limpid Dune, and to the wood 
Rove on. It chanced erewhile that thither came 
To freshen with the water his spent steeds, 
And lave the clogging carnage from his wheels, 
Caswallon, he his huge and weary length 
Cast for brief rest upon the bank ; a groan 
Came from a helmless head that in the grass 
Lay undistinguish'd. " 'Tis a Briton," cried 
Caswallon, " cast the carrion off" to feed 
The dogs and kites, that thus irreverent breaks 
Upon its monarch's rest." Even as a flower, 
Poppy or hyacinth, on its broken stem, 
Languidly raises its encumber'd head. 
And turns it to the gentle evening sun, 
So feebly rose, so turn'd that Boy his face 
Unto the well-known voice ; twice raised his head. 
Twice it fell back in powerless heaviness ; 
Even at that moment from the dark wood came. 
Lured by their partners in the stall and field, 
His chariot coursers, heavily behind 
Dragging the vacant car, loose hung the reins. 
And mournfulness, and dull disorder slack'd 
The spirit of their tread. Caswallon knew, 
And he leap'd up ; the Boy his bloodless lips 
With a long effort opened. " Was it well, 
Father, at this my first, my earliest fight 
To mock me with a baffled hope of fame ? 
Well was it to defraud me of my right 
To noble death?" — and speaking thus he died. 

Above him his convulsed unconscious hands 
Horribly with his rough black beard at play, 
Wrenching and twisting off the rooted locks, 
Yet senseless of the pain, the Father lean'd. 
Then leap'd he up, with cool and jealous care 
Within his chariot placed the lifeless corpse, 
And with his lash fierce rent the half-unyoked 
Half-harness'd steeds ; disorderly and swift 
As with their master's ire instinct they flew, 
Making a wide road through the hurtUng fray. 
Briton or Saxon, friend or foe alike, 
Kinsman or stranger, one wide enmity 
'Gainst general humankind, one infinite 



And undislinguishing lust of carnage fiU'd 
The Master and the Horses ; so wild groans 
Follow'd where'er he moved, 'twas all to him, 
So slaughter dripp'd and reek'd ft-om the choked 

scythes. 
The low lay mow'd like the spring grass, down 

swept 
On th' eminent, like lightning on the oaks, 
His battle-axe, each time it fell, each time 
A life was gone, each time a hideous laugh 
Shone on the Slayer's cheek and writhing Up; 
As in the Oriental wars where meet 
Sultan and Omrah, under his broad tower 
Moves stately the huge Elephant, a shaft 
Haply casts down his friendly rider, wont 
To lead him to the tank, whose children shared 
With him their feast of fruits : awhile he droops 
Affectionate his loose and moaning trunk ; 
Then in his grief and vengeance bursts, and bears 
In his feet's trampling rout and disarray 
To either army, ranks give way, and troops 
Scatter, while, swaying on his heaving back 
His tottering tower, he shakes the sandy plain. 
Meanwhile had risen a conflict high and fierce 
For Britain's royal banner ; Hengist here, 
Argantyr, the Vikinger, Hcrmingard, 
And other Chiefs. But there th' Armoric King, 
Emrys and Uther, with the Avenger stood. 
An iron wall against their inroad ; turn'd 
Samor 'gainst him at distance heard and seen, 
The car-borne Mountaineer, then Uther met 
Argantyr, Hengist and King Emrys fought, 
The rest o'erbore King Hoel ; one had slain 
The standard-bearer, and all arms at once 
Seized as it fell, all foreign and all foes. 
When lo, that sable Warrior, that retired 
And careless had look'd on, upon his steed 
And in the battle, like a thundercloud 
He came, and like a thundercloud he burst, 
Black, cold and sullen, conquering without pride 
And slaying without triumph ; three that grasp'd 
The standard came at once lo earth, while he 
Over his head with kingly motion sway'd 
The bright redeemed ensign, and as fell 
The shaken sunhght radiant o'er his brow, 
Pride came about him, and with voice like joy 
He cried aloud, " Aries ! Aries !" — and shook his 

sword, 
" Thou'st won me once a royal crown, and nov/ 
Shalt v/in a royal sepulchre." — The sword 
Perform' d its fatal duty, down they fell 
Before him, Jute and Saxon, nameless men 
And Chieftains ; svhat though wounds he scorn'd 

to ward. 
Nor seem'd to feel, shower'd on him, and his 

blood 
Oozed manifest, still he slew, still cried, " Aries ! 

Aries !" 
Still in the splendour the waved standard spread 
Stood glorying the arm'd darkness of his form ; 
Stood from his wounded steed dismounted, stood 
Amid an area of dead men, himself 
About to die, none daring an assault, 
He powerless of assailing. But the crown 
That on the flag-staff gleam'd, he wrench'daway, 
And on his crest with calm solicitude 
Placed it, then planting 'mid the high-heap'd slain 
The standard, to o'ercanopy his sleep, 



524 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



As one upon his nightly couch of down 
Composes quietly his weary head, 
So royally he laid him down to die. — 

But now was every fight broke off, a pause 
Seized all the battle, one vast silence quench'd 
All tumult ; slain and slayer, life and death 
Possess' d one swoon of torpor, droop' d and fail'd 
All passions, pride, wrath, vengeance, hate, 

dismay, 
All was one wide astonishment : alone 
Two undistracted on each other gazed. 
Where helpless in their death-blood they lay 

steep'd, 
The ebbing of each other's life, the stiff 
Damp growing on of death ; till in a groan 
Horsa exhausted his fierce soul ; then came 
A momentary tinge, soft and subdued 
As of affections busy at his heart, 
On Vortimer's expiring brow, his lip 
Wore something of the curl men's use, when 

names 
Beloved are floating o'er the thought, the flowers 
On that lone grave made fragrant his sick sense, 
And Eamont murmur' d on his closing ear. 

But he, whose coming cast this silence on 
Before it, as the night its widening shade. 
Curtaining nature in its soundless pall. 
An atmosphere of dying breath where'e 
He moved, his drear envelopment, his path 
An element of blood; so fleet, so fast 
The power to fly seem'd wither'd, ere he came. 
Men laid them down and said their prayers and 

look'd 
For the quick plunging hoofs and rushing scythes : 
As when the palsied Universe aghast 
Lay, all its tenants, even Man, restless Man, 
In all his busy workings mute and still, 
When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth 
Devious through heaven's affrighted signs, his 

Sire's 
Ill-granted chariot, him the Thunderer hurl'd 
From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf 
Of the half-parch'd Eridanus, where weep 
Even now the Sister Trees their amber tears 
O'er Phaeton untimely dead. And now 
Had the Avenger reach'd the path of death, 
And stood in arms before the steeds, they came 
Rearing their ireful hoofs to dash him down ; 
But with both hands he seized their foaming curbs, 
Holding them in their spring with outstretch'd arm 
Aloft, and made their hfted crests a shield 
Against their driver. He with baffled lash 
Goaded their quivering flanks, but that strong arm 
Held them above avoiding, their fore-hoofs 
Beat th' unhurt air, and overspread his breast. 
Like a thick snov>^-shower, the fast faUing foam. 
Then leap'dCaswallon down, back Samor hurl'd 
Coursers and chariot, and, " Now," cried aloud, 
" Now, King of Britain, in the name of God 
I tender thee a throne, two yards of earth 
To rot on, and a diadem, a wreath 
Of death-drops for thy haught aspiring brow." 

"There, there, look there," Caswallon cried, 
his hand 
Stretch'd tow'rd his son, and in a frantic laugh 



Broke out, and echoed, — "Diadems and thrones!" 
With rigid finger pointing at the dead. 

A moment, and the fury burst again ; 
Down came the ponderous battle-axe, from edge 
To edge it rived the temper' d brass, as swift 
As shot-stars the thin ether ; but the glaive 
Of Samor right into his bosom smote. 
Like some old turret, under whose broad shade 
At summer noon the shepherd oft his flock 
Hath driven, and in the friendly cool rejoiced, 
Suddenly, violently, from its base 
Push'd by the winter floods, he fell ; his look 
Yet had its savage blasphemy : he felt 
More than the blow, the deadly blow, the cries 
Of joy and triumph from each army sent. 
Vaunting and loud ; to him to die was nought, 
He could not brook the shame of being slain. 
But other thoughts arose ; hardly he crept 
To where dead Malwyn from the car hung down. 
Felt on his face the cold depending hand. 
And with a smile, half joy half anguish, died. 

Th' Avenger knelt, his heart too full for prayer. 
Knelt, and held up his conquering sword to 

heaven, 
Yet spake not. But the battle, as set free. 
Its rugged game renew'd, nor equal now 
Nor now unbroken. Flight and shameful Rout 
Here scatter'd. Victory there and Pride array'd, 
And mass'd in comely files and full square troops 
Bore onward. Mountaineer and trerman break 
Around the hill foot, and like ebbing waves 
Disperse away. Argantyr, Hengist znove 
In the recoiling flood reluctant. Them 
Nought more resembled, than two mountain bulls 
Driven by the horse and dog and hunter's spear, 
Still turning with huge brow and tearing up 
The deep earth with their wrathful stooping 

horns. 

But as the hill was open'd, from the top 
Even to the base arose a shriek and scream, 
As when some populous Capital besieged. 
Sees yawning her wide-breach'd wall, and all 
Her shatter'd bulwarks on the earth, so wild, 
So dissonant the female rout appear' d 
Hanging with fierce disturbance the hill side. 
Some with rent hair ran to and fro, some stood 
With silent mocking lip, some softly prest 
Their infants to their heart, some held them forth 
As to invite the foe, and for them sued 
The mercy of immediate slaughter. Some 
Spake fiercely of past deeds of fame, some sang 
In taunting tone old songs of victory. Wives, 
With eye imploring and quick-heaving breast, 
Look'd sad allusions to endearments past ; 
Mothers, all bashfulness cast down, rent down 
Their garments, to their sons displaying bare 
The fountains of their infant nourishment, 
Now ready to be plough'd with murtherous 

swords. 
Some knelt before their cold deaf Gods, some 

scoff 'd 
With imprecation blasphemous and shrill 
Their stony and unwakening thunders. Noise 
Not fiercer on Cithaeron side, th' affright 
Not drearier, when the Theban Bacchic rout, 



S A M O R . 



525 



Their dashing cymbals white with moonshine, 

loose 
Their tresses bursting from their ivy crowns, » 
And purple with enwoven vine-leaves, led 
Their orgies dangerous. In the midst the Queen 
Agave shook the misdeem' d Lion's head 
Aloft, and laugh'd and danced and sung, nor knew 
That lion suckled at her own white breast. 

But Elfelin the Prophetess her seat 
Changed not, nor the near horror could recall 
Her eye from its strange commerce with th' 

unseen ; 
There had she been, there had she been in smiles 
All the long battle ; just before the spear 
Or falchion drank a warrior's life-blood, she 
Audible, as a high-tribunal'd judge. 
Spake out his name, and aye her speech was doom. 

Nor long the o'erbearing flight enwrapt thy 

strength, 
Argantyr ! thou amid the shattering wreck 
Didst rise as in some ruinous city old, 
Babylon or Palmyra, magic built, 
A single pillar yet with upright shaft 
Stands, 'mid the wide prostration mossy and flat, 
Showing more eminent. Past the Saxon by. 
And look'd and wonder'd, even that he delay'd ; 
Cried his own Anglians — " King, away, away !" 
First came King Hoel on, whose falchion clove 
His buckler, with a wrest he burst in twain 
The shivering steel ; came Emrys next, aside 
His misaim'd blow he shook ; last Uther, him 
His war-horse, by Argantyr's beam-hke spear 
Then first appall' d, bore in vain anger past. 

From his late victory in proud breathlessness 
Slov\' came the Avenger, but Argantyr raised 
A cry of furious joy : " Long sought, late found, 
I charge thee, by our last impeded fight, 
I charge thee, give me back mine own, my sword 
Is weary of its bathes of vulgar blood, 
And longs in nobler streams to plunge ; with thine 
I'll gild and hang it on my Father's grave. 
And his helm'd ghost in Woden's hall shall vaunt 
The glories of his son." " Generous and brave, 
When last we met, I shrunk to see my sword 
Bright with God's sunlight, now with dauntless 

hand 
I lift it, and cry On, in the name of God." 

They met, they strove, as with a cloud enwrapt 
In their own majesty ; their motions gave 
Terror even to iheir shadows : round them spread 
Attention like a sleep. Flight paused, Pursuit 
Caught up its loose rein. Death his furious work 
Ceased, and a dreary respite gave to souls 
Half parted ; on their elbows rear'd them up 
The dying, with faint effort holding ope 
Their dropping eyelids, homage of deUght 
War from its victims thus exacting. Mind 
And body engross' d the conflict. Men were seen 
At distance, for in their peculiar sphere, 
Within the wind and rush of their quick arms 
None ventured, following with unconscious limbs 
Their blows, and shrinking as themselves were 

struck. 
Like scatter' d shiverings of a scathed oak, lay 



Fragments of armour round ihem, the hard brass 
Gave way, and brokethe fiery temper'd steel 
The stronger metal of the human soul, 
Valour, endured, and power thrice purified 
In danger's furnace fail'dnot. Victory, thed 
Of wavering, to those passive instruments, 
Look'd to decide her long suspense. Behold 
Argantyr's falchion, magic-wrought, his sires 
So fabled, by the Asgard dwarfs, nor hewn 
From earthly mines, nor dipp'd in earthly fires, 
Broke short. Th' ancestral steel the Anglians saw, 
Sign of their Kings, and worship of their race, 
Give way, and wail'd and shriek' d aloud. The 

King 
Collected all his glory as a pall 
To perish in, and scorn'd his sworded foe 
To mock with vain defence of unarm'd hand. 
The exultation and fierce throb of hope 
Yet had not pass'd away, but look'd to death 
As it had look'd to conquest, death so well. 
So bravely earn'd to warrior fair as hfe : 
Stern welcoming, bold invitation lured 
To its last work the Conqueror's sword. Him 

flush' d 
The pride of Conquest, vengeance long delay'd, 
Th' exalted shame of victory won so slow. 
So toilsomely ; all fiery passions, all 
Tumultuous sense-intoxicating powers 
Conspired with their wild anarchy beset 
His despot soul. But he — " Ah, faithless sword, 
To me as to thy master faithless, him 
Naked at his extreme to leave, and me 
To guile of this occasion fair to win 
Honour or death from great Argantyr's arm." 

" Christian, thy God is mightiest, scorn not 

thou 
His bounty, nor with dalliance mock thy hour — 
Strike and consummate !" — " Anghan, yes ; my 

God, 
Th' Almighty, is the mightiest now and ever, 
Because I scorn him not, I will not strike." — 
So saying, he his sword cast down. " Thus, thus 
Warr'st thou?" the Anglian cried, " then thou 

hast won. 
I, I Argantyr yield me, other hand 
Had tempted me in vain with that base boon 
Which peasants prize and women weep for, life : 
To lord o'er dead Argantyr fate might grant, 
He only grants to vanquish him alive. 
Only to thee, well named Avenger !" Then 
The Captive and the Conqueror th' armies saw 
Gazing upon each other with the brow 
Of higharch'd admiration; o'er the field 
From that example flow'd a noble scorn 
Of slaughtering the defenceless, mercy slaked 
The ardour of the fight. As the speck'd birch 
After a shower, with th' odour of its bark 
Freshens the circuit of the rain-bright grove ; 
Or as the tender argent of Love's star 
Smiles to a lucid quiet the wild sky : 
So those illustrious rivals with the light 
Of their high language and heroic act 
Cast a nobihty o'er all the war. 
That capture took a host, none scorn'd to yield, 
So loftily Argantyr wore the garb 
Of stern surrender, none inchned to slay, 
When Samor held the signal up to spare. 



536 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



But where the Lord of that dire falchion named 
The Widower of Women ? He, the Chief 
Whose arms were squadrons, whose assault the 

shock 
Of hosts advancing? Hath the cream-blanched 

steed, 
Whom the outstripp' d winds pant after, borne away 
His master, yet with hope uncheck'd, and craft 
UnbafBed, th' equal conflict to renew ? 
Fast flew the horse, and fierce the rider spurr'd, 
That horse that all the day remorseless went 
O'er dead and dying, all that Hengist slew 
All he cast down before him. Lo, he checks 
Suddenly, startingly, with his ears erect. 
Thick tremor oozing out from every pore, 
His broad chest palpitating, the thick foam 
Lazily gathering on his dropping lip : 
The pawing of his uplift forefoot chill'd 
To a loose hanging quiver. Nor his Lord 
Less horror seized ; slack trembled in his left 
The bridle, with his right hand dropt his sword, 
Dripp'd slowly from its point the flaking blood 
Of hundreds, this day fall'n beneath its edge. 

For lo, descended the hill side, stood up 
Right in his path the Prophetess, and held 
With a severe compassion both her arms 
Over her head, and thus — " It cannot be, 
I've cried unto the eagle, air hath none ; 
I've sued unto the fleet and bounding deer, 
I've sought unto the sly and mining snake ; 
There's none above the earth, beneath the earth, 
No flight, no way, no narrow obscure way. 
I've call'd unto the lightning, as it leap'd 
Along heaven's verge, it cannot guide thee forth ; 
I've beckon' d to the dun and pitchy gloom, 
It cannot shroud thee ; to the caves of earth 
I've wail'd and shriek'd, they cannot chamber 
thee." 

He spoke not, moved not, strove not : man and 

steed, 
Like some equestrian marble in the courts 
Of Emperors ; that fierce eye whose wisdom keen 
Pierced the dark depths of counsel, hawk-like 

roved. 
Seizing the unutter'd thoughts from out men's 

souls, 
Wrought order in the battle's turbulent fray 
By its command, on the aged Woman's face 
Fix'd like a moonstruck idiot. She upright 
With strength beyond her bow'd and shrivell'd 

limbs 
Still stood, and murmur'd low, " Why comest 

thou not, 
Thou of the Vale? thou fated, come! come! 

come!" 

The foes o'ertook, he look'd not round, their 
tramp 
Was round him, still he moved not ; violent hands 
Seized on him, still the enchanted falchion hung 
Innocent as a feather by his side. 
They tore him from his steed, still clung his eyes 
On her disastrous face ; she fiercely shriek'd 
Half pride at her accomplish'd prophecy. 
Half sorrow at Erie Hengist's fall, then down 
Upon the stone that bore her, she fell dead. 



BOOK XII. 

Oh Freedom, of our social Universe 
The Sun, that feedest from thy urn of light 
The starry commonwealth, from those mean 

lamps 
Modestly glimmering in their sphere retired 
Even to the plenar and patrician orbs, 
That in their rich nobihty of Mght, 
Or golden royalty endiadem'd. 
Their mystic circle undisturb'd round thee 
Move musical ; but thou thy central state 
Preserving, equably the fair-rank'd whole 
In dutiful magnificence maintain' st, 
And stately splendour of obedience. Earth 
Wonders, th' approval of th' Almighty beams 
Manifest in the glory of the work. 
Though sometimes drown'd within the red eclipse 
Of tyranny, or brief while by the base 
And marshy exhalations of low vice 
And popular license madden' d thou hast flash'd 
Disastrous and intolerable fire ; 
Yet ever mounting hast thou still march'd on 
To thy meridian throne. My waxen wing 
Oh, quenchless luminary ! may not soar 
To that thy dazzling and o'erpowering noon ; 
Rather the broken glimpses of thy dawn 
Visiteth, when thy orient overcast 
A promise and faint foretaste of its light 
Beam'd forth, then plunged its cloud-slaked front 

in gloom. 

Even with such promise dost thou now adorn 
Thy chosen city by the Thames, where holds 
Victorious Emrys his high Judgment court. 
Thither the long ovation hath he led, 
Amid the solemn music of rent chains, 
The rapture of deliverance ; where he past 
Earth brightening, and the face of man but now 
Brow-sear'd with the deep brand of servitude, 
To its old upright privilege restored 
Of gazing on its kindred heaven. The towns 
Gladden'd amid their ruins, churches shook 
With throngs of thankful votaries,* till 'twas fear 
Transport might finish Desolation's work, 
And bhss precipitate the half moulder'd walls. 
'Tis famed, men died for joy, untimely births 
Were frequent, as the eager mothers prest 
To show their infants to the brightening world. 
They that but now beheld the bier-borne dead 
With miserable envy, past them by 
Contemptuously pitying, as too soon 
Departed from this highly gifted earth. 
So they the Trinobantine City reach'd. 
Without the walls, close by the marge of Thames, 
The synod of the Conquerors met ; a place 
Solemn and to the soul discoursing high. 
Here broad the bridgeless Thames, even like 

themselves 
Thus at their flush and high tide of renown, 
Swell' d his exulting waters. There all waste 
The royal cemetery of Britain lay, 



* Then did Aurelius Ambrosiiis put the Saxons out of 
all other parts of the land, and repaired such cities, 
towns, and also churches, as by them had been de- 
stroyed or defaced, etc. HoU. Book 6, Chap. « 



SAMOR, 



53T 



The monuments, like their cold tenantry, 
Mouldering, above all ruin as beneath, 
A wide profound, drear sameness of decay. 
Upon the Church of Christ had heavily fallen 
The Pagan desolation, hung the doors 
Loose on their broken and disused hinge, 
And grass amid the chequer' d pavement squares 
Was springing, and along the vacant choir 
The shrill wind was God's only worshipper. 

Even where they met, through the long years 

have sate 
In Parliament our nation's high and wise. 
There have deep thoughts been ponder' d, strong 

designs 
On which the fate of the round world hath hung. 
Thence have the emanating rays of truth. 
Freedom, and constancy, and holiness 
Flow'd in their broad beneficence, no bound 
Owning but that which limits this brief earth. 
Brightening this misty state of man ; the winds 
That thence bear mandates to th' inconstant 

thrones 
Of Europe, to the realms of th' orient Sun, 
Or to the new and ocean-sever'd earth, 
Or to the Southern cocoa-feather'd isles. 
Are welcome, as pure gales of health and joy. 
Still that deep dwelling underneath the earth 
Its high and ancient privilege maintains. 
Dark palace of our island's parted Kings. 
Earth-ceil'd pavilion of our brave and wise. 
Whose glory ere it swept them off, hath cast 
A radiance on the scythe of Death. Disused 
For two long heathen ages, it became 
The pavement of our sumptuous minster fair, 
That ever and anon yet gathers in 
King, Conqu'ror, Poet, Orator, or Sage 
To her stone chambers, there to sleep the sleep 
That wakens only at the Archangel's trump. 

First in the synod rose King Emrys ; he 
The royal sword of justice from his side 
Ungirding, placed it in the Avenger's hand. 
And led him to the judgment-seat. He shrunk. 
And ofTer'd back the solemn steel — " Oh ! King, 
Judge and Avenger ! who shall reconcile 
The discord of those titles, private wrongs 
Will load my partial arm, and drag to earth 
The unsteady balance. Only God can join 
And blend in one the Injured and' the Judge." 
But as a wave Hfts up and bears along 
A stately bark, so the acclamation swell 
Floated into the high Tribunal throne 
Reluctant Samor : on his right the King 
Sate sceptred, royal Uther on the left. 
While all around the assembled Nation bask'd 
In his efiulgent presence. 'Twas a boast 
In after ages this day to have seen 
Him whom all throng'd to see ; memory of him, 
Every brief notice of his mien and height 
Become an heir-loom ; mothers at the font 
Gave to their babes his name, and e'er that 

child 
Was held the staff and honour of the race. 

So met the Nation in their judgment Hall, 
Its pavement was the sacred mother earth, 
Its roof the crystal and immortal heavens. 



Then forth the captives came, Argantyr first. 
Even with his wonted loftiness of tread : 
Nature's rich heraldry upon his brow 
Emblazing him of those whose scorn the world 
Bears unashamed, by whom to be despised 
Is no abasement. Men's eyes ranged from him 
To Samor, back to him — in wonder now 
Of conquest o'er such mighty foe, now lost 
The wonder in their kindred Conqueror's pride. 
Then said the Anglian — " Wherefore lead ye 

here?" 
The sternness of his questioning appall' d 
All save the Judge. — " What Briton," he rephed, 
" Witnesseth aught against the Anglian Chief?" 
Thereat was proclamation. East and West 
And North and South : the silent winds came back 
With wings unloaded : so that noble mien 
Wrought conquest o'er man's darkest passionsj. 

hate. 
And doubt, and terror, so the Captive cast 
His yoke on every soul, and harness'd it 
Unto his valiant spirit's chariot wheels. 

Then spake the stately and tribunal'd Judge— 
" Anglian Argantyr! Britain is not wont 
T' inflict upon a fair and open foe 
Aught penal but defeat ; her warfare bows 
Beneath her feet, but tramples not ; her throne 
Hath borne the stormy brunt of thy assault. 
And dash'd it off, and thus she saith, " Return, 
Return unto thy German woods, nor more. 
Once baffled, vex our coasts with fruitless W'ar. 
And ihy return shall be to years remote 
Our bond and charter of security ; 
A shudder and cold trembhng at our name 
Shall pass with thee, the land that hath spurn'd 

back 
Argantyr's march of victory, shall be known 
T' eternal freedom consecrate. Your ships 
Shall plough our Seas, but turn their timorous 

prows 
Aloof, while on the deck the Sea King points 
To our white cliffs, and saith — "The Anglian 

thence 
Retreated, shun the unconquerable shore." — 
" So never more shall my hot war-horse bathe 
In British waters, nor my falchion meet 
The bold resistance of a British steel. 
So wills the Conqueror, thus the Conquer'd 

swears." 

Thus spake Argantyr ; sudden then and swift. 
Loftier shot up his brow, prophetic hues 
Swam o'er his agitated features, words 
Came with a rush and instantaneous flow. — 

" I tell thee, Briton, that thy sons and mhio 
Shall be two meeting and conflicting tides. 
Whose fierce relentless enmity shall lash 
This land into a whirlpool deep and wide, 
To swallow in its vast insatiate gulf 
Her peace and smooth felicity, till flow 
Their waters reconciled in one broad bed, 
Briton and Anglian one in race and name. 
'Tis written in the ancient solemn Runes, 
'Tis spoken by prophetic virgin lips. 
Avenger, thou and I our earthly wars 
Have ended, but my spirit yet shall hold 



528 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



Noble, inexorable strife with thine. 
It shall heave off its barrow, burst its tomb, 
And to my sons discourse of glorious foes 
In this rich Island to be met : my shade 
Shall cross them in their himtings, it shall walk 
The ocean paths, and on the winds, and seize 
-Their prows, and fill their sails, and all its voice 
And all its secret influences urge 
To the White Isle ;* their slumbers shall not rest, 
Their quiet shall be weariness, till lull'd 
Upon the pillow of success repose 
The high, the long hereditary feud." 
So saying, he the bark that lay prepared 
With sail unfurl'd, ascended. She went forth 
Momently with quick shadow the blue Thames 
Darkening, then leaving on its breast a light 
Like silver. The fix'd eyes of wondering men 
Track'd his departure, while with farewell gleam 
The bright Sun shone upon his brow, and seem'd 
A triumph in the motion of the stream ; 
So loftily upon its long slow ebb 
It bore that honour-laden bark. — Nor pause, 
Lo in the presence of the Judgment Court 
The second criminal: pride had not pass'd 
Nor majesty from his hoar brow ; he stood 
With all except the terror of despair, 
Consciously in fatality's strong bonds 
Manacled, of the coming death assured, 
Yet fronting the black future with a look 
Obdurate even to scornfulness. He seem'd 
As he heard nought, as though his occupied ears 
Were pervious to no sound, since that dim voice 
Of her who speaking died, the silver hair'd, 
The Prophetess, that never spake untrue : 
As ever with a long unbroken flow 
Her song was ranging through his brain, and struck 
Its death -knoll on his soul. Nor change had come 
Since that drear hour to eye or cheek; the craft, 
The wisdom that was wont to make him lord 
Over the shifting pageant of events. 
Had given its trust up to o'er-ruUng fate, 
And that stern Paramount, Necessity, 
Had seal' d him for her own. Amid them all 
He tower' d, as when the summer thunderbolt 
'Mid a rich fleet some storm-accustom' d bark 
Hath stricken, round her the glad waters dance, 
Her sails are full, her strong prow fronts the 

waves ; 
But works within the irrevocable doom, 
Wells up her secret hold th' inundant surge, 
And the heavy waters weigh her slowly down. 

For the arraignment made the Judge a sign, 
And the first witness was a mighty cry, 
As 'twere the voice of the whole Isle, hills 
And plains and waters fheir abhorrence spake ; 
Hoarse harmony of imprecation seem'd 
To break the ashy sleep of ruin'd tovms, 
And th' unlomb'd slumbers of far battle vales. 
As if the crowd about the Judgment Court 
Did only with articulate voice repeat 
What indistinct came down on every wind. 
Then all the near, the distant, sank away, 
Only a low and melancholy tone, 



* The Welsh called it Inis Wen, the White Island 
Speed, B. 5. c. 2. Some derive Britain from Pyrd Cain 
— Beauty and White. — Ibid. 



Like a far music down a summer stream 
Remain'd ; upon the luU'd, nor panting air 
Fell that smooth snow of sound, till nearer now 
It swell'd, as clearer water-falls are heard 
When midnight grows more still. A funeral 

hymn. 
It pour'd the rapture of its sadness out. 
Even like a sparkUng soporific wine. 
But now and then broke from its low long fall. 
Something of martial and majestic swell, 
That spake its mourning o'er no vulgar dead. 

Lo to the royal burying-place, chance borne 
Even at this solemn time, or so ordain'd 
From their bright-scutcheon' d biers their part to 

bear 
In this arraignment, came King Vortigern, 
And th' honour'd ashes of his Son. But still 
And voiceless these cold witnesses past on. 
Unto the place of tombs. Along the Thames 
Far floated into silence the spent hymn ; 
And one accusing sound arose from them, 
The heavy faUing of their earth to earth. 

One female mourner came behind the King, 
Half of her face the veil conceal' d, her eyes 
Were visible, and though a deadly haze 
Film'd their sunk balls, she sent into the grave 
Following the heavy and descending corpse, 
A look of such imploring loveliness, 
A glance so sad, so self-condemning, all 
(So softly, tremulously it appeal' d) 
Might wonder that the spirit came not back 
To animate for the utterance that she wish'd 
Those bloodless lips : forgiveness it was plain 
She sought, and one so beauteous to forgive. 
The dead might almost wake. And she sate 

down, 
Leaning her cheek upon a broken stone 
(Once a King's inon\iment) as Ustening yet 
Th' acceptance of her prayers : nor cloister'd Nun 
Hath ever since mourning her broken vows, 
And his neglect for -,vhom those vows she broke, 
Come to the image of her Virgin Saint 
With such a faded cheek and contrite mien. 
As her who by those royal ashes sate. 

But lo, irew witnesses : a matron train 
In flowing robes of grief came forth, the wives 
And mothers of those nobles foully slain 
At the Peace banquet, them the memory yet 
Seem'd haunting of delicious days broke off. 
On Hengist, even a captive, dared not they 
Look firmly, as their helpless loneliness 
Spake for them, they their solitary breasts 
Beat, wrung their destitute cold hands, and pass'd. 

Arose the mitred Germain, glanced his hand 
From that majestic criminal, where lay 
The ruins of Clod's church, and so sate down. 

But Samor look'd upon the mourner train, 
As though he sought a face that was not there. 
That could not be, soft Emeric's.— " I have none, 
I only none to witness of my wrongs." — 
So said he, but he shook the softness oflf. 
On the tribunal rose severe, and stood 
Erect before the multitude. " Thou King, 



SAMOR. 



529 



And ye, assembled People of the Isle, 
If that I speak your sentence right, give in 
Your sanction of Amen. Here stands the man, 
Who two long years laid waste with fire and sword 
Your native cities and your altar shrines : 
Here stands the man, who by slow fraud and guile 
Discrown'd your stately Monarch, Vortigern: 
Here stands the man, hath water'd whh your 

blood 
The red and sickening herbage of your land : 
Here stands the man, that to your peaceful feast 
Brought Murther, that grim seneschal, and 

drugg'd 
With your most noble blood your friendly cups." 

And at each charge came in the deep Amen, 
Even like the sounds men hear on stormy nights. 
When many thunders are abroad. Nought moved, 
Stood Hengist, if emotion o'er him pass'd, 
'Twas likest an elate contemptuons joy 
And glorying in those lofty worded crimes. 
Then, " Saxon Hengist, as thy sword hath made 
Our children fatherless, so fatherless 
Must be thy children'"* And Amen knoU'd 

back, 
As a plague-visited Metropolis 
Mourning the wide and general funeral, tolls 
From all her towers and spires the bell of death. 

'' Thy children fatherless ! not so — not so" — 
Rose with a shriek that Woman by the grave. 
And she sprang forth, as from beneath the earth. 
As a partaker of, no mourner near 
That kingly coffin. Veil fell off, and band 
Started, through her bright tresses her pale face 
Glitter'd, like purest ivory chased in gold. 
Between the Criminal and Judge her stand 
Rowena took ; him as she saw and knew 
Flush'd a sick rapture o'er her face and neck, 
A fading rose-hue, like eve's parting light 
On a snow bank; but from her marble brow 
She the bright-clustering hair wiped back, and 

thus : 
" Samor, the last time thou this brow beheld'st 
The moonhght was upon it, since that hour 
The vsrater hath flow'd o'er it, holy sign 
Hath there been left by Christian hand, and I 
Thy creed have learnt, and one word breathes 

it all- 
Mercy." — " But Justice is God's attribute. 
Lady, as well as mercy, Man on earth 
Must be Vicegerent of both stern and mild. 
Lest over-ramping Evil set its foot 
Upon the prostrate world. The doom is said, 
The doom must be." — " Ha ! Man with heart of 

clay. 
To answer with that cold and steadfast mien ; 
Oh, I'll go back and sue the dead again. 
There's more forgiveness in the cold deaf corpse 
Than the warm keen-ear'd living. From that 

vault 
I felt sweet reconcilement stealing up, 
That turn'd my tears to honey dew : here, all, 
AH sullen and relentless on me glares, 



* Tlie words used to Agag were applied on this occa- 
sion, according to the Welsii tradition. — Robert's 
Translatiov of the Brut of TysiHo. 

67 



I ask not for myself, not for myself, 

The ice of death is round my heart, there long 

I've felt the slow consuming prey, I feel 

The trembling ebb of my departing life. 

That hoary head, though granted to my prayers, 

Shall never rest upon my failing knee. 

The father that ye give me back (I feel 

Ye give him, thou that bear'st the Avenger's 

name, 
I know thee by a milder character,) 
That father cannot long be mine ; his hands 
May lay me in the grave, his eyes may weep 
For they can weep, although ye think it not ; 
Those hands ye deem for ever blood-embrued, 
I've felt them fondling with my golden hair, 
When with gay childish foot I danced to meet 
His far-resounding horn. That horn shall sound, 
But on my deaf and earth-closed ears no more. 
No more." — " Rowena, when a Nation speaks, 
The irrevocable sentence cannot change." 

Then up her fair round arm she raised, and 
wrapt 
Like a rich mantle round her ; her old pride 
As the poetic Juno in the clouds 
Walking in her majestic ire, while slow 
Before her th' azure-breasted peacocks draw 
Her chariot. — " Tell me, thou that sitt'st elate. 
And ye, who call yourself this British realm, 
By what new right ye judge a German King ? 
Where are your charters, where your scrolls of 

law 
Whose bright and blazon'd titles give ye power 
To pass a doom on crowned head \ Down, down, 
Ye bold Usurpers of the Judgment seat. 
Insolent doomers of a sacred life, 
Beyond your sphere to touch, your grasp to seize." 

" Lady, we judge by the adamantine law, 
That lives within the eternal soul of man, 
i That God-enacted charter, ' Blood for blood.' " 

Exhausted she sank down upon her knees. 
Her knees that fainted under her. — " Ye can, 
Ye will not show unto a woman's eyes 
That bloody consimimation, not to mine. 
Oh, thou that speakest in that brazen tone 
Implacable, the last time thou and I 
Discoursed, thy voice was broken, tender, soft, 
Remember'st thou? 'twas then as it had caught 
The trembling of the moonlight, that lay round 
With rapturous disquiet bathing us. 
Remember'st thou?" — Almost the Judgment 

sword 
Fell from the Avenger's failing hand, but firm 
He grasp'd it, and with eyes to heaven upturn'd, 
" Oh, duty, duty, why art thou so stern?" 
Then, " Lady, lo, the headsman with his steel; 
To that dark Priest 'tis given to sacrifice 
The victim of to-day — depart ! depart ! 
Colours may flow too deep for woman's sight. 
And sounds may burst too drear for woman's ear." 

Stately as hly on a sunshine bank. 
Shaken from its curl'd leaves the o'erchavging 

dew. 
Freshens and strengthens its bow'd stem, so white 
So brightening to a pale cold pride, a faint 



530 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



And trembling majesty, Rowena sate. 

On Hengist's dropping lip and knitted brow 

Was mockery at her fate-opposing prayer, 

And tliat was all. But she — "Proud-hearted 

Men, 
Ye vainly deem your privilege, your right, 
Prerogative of your high-minded race, 
The glory of endurance, and the state 
Of strong resolving fortitude. Here I, 
A woman born to melt and faint and fail, 
A frail, a delicate, dying woman, sit 
To shame ye." She endured the flashing stroke 
Of th' axe athwart her eyesight, and the blood 
That sprung around her she endured : still kept 
The lily its unbroken stateliness, 
And its pellucid beauty sparkled, still, 
But all its odours were exhaled — the breath 
Of life, the tremulous motion was at rest ; 
A flower of marble on a temple wall, 
'Twas fair but lived not, ghtter'd but was cold. 
While from the headless corpse t' its great account 
Went fiercely forth the Pagan's haughty soul. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE BELVIDERE APOLLO: 

A PRIZE POEM, 

RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, IN THE 
YEAR MDCCCXII. 

Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? 
Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry? 
In settled majesty of calm disdain, 
Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain. 
The heav'nly Archer stands* — no human birth, 
No perishable denizen of earth ; 
»Youth blooms immortal in his .beardless face, 
A God in strength, with more than godlike grace ; 
All, all divine — no struggling muscle glows. 
Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood 

flows, 
But animate with deity alone. 
In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. 

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight, 
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight ; 
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire. 
And his lip quivers with insulting ire : 
Firm fix'd his tread, yet light, as when on high 
He walks th' impalpable ahd pathless sky : 
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined 
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind, 
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold 
Proud to display that form of faultless mould. 

Mighty Ephesian !t with an eagle's flight 
Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light, 



* The Apollo is in the act of watching the arrow with 
which he slew the serpent Python, 
f Agasias of Ephesus. 



View'd the bright conclave of Heaven's blest 

abode, 
And the cold marble leapt to life a God : 
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran, 
And nations bow'd before the work of man. 
For mild he seem'd, as in Elysian bowers, 
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours ; 
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway 
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day ; 
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep 
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 
'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, "* 
Too fair to worship, too divine to love. 

Yet on that form in wild delirious trance 
With more than rev'rence gazed the Maid of 

France, 
Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood 
With him alone, nor thought it solitude ! 
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care, 
Her one fond hope — to perish of despair. 
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguiled. 
Blushing she shrunk, and thought the marble 

smiled : 
Oft breathless list'ning heard, or seem'd to hear, 
A voice of music melt upon her ear. 
Slowly she waned, and cold and senseless grown, 
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumb'd to stone. 
Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied : 
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled and 

died.* 



THE MERRY HEART. 

I woTJLD not from the wise require 

The lumber of their learned lore ; 

Nor would I from the rich desire 

A single counter of their store. 

For I have ease, and I have health. 

And I have spirits, light as air ; 

And more than wisdom, more than wealth, 

A merry heart, that laughs at care. 

At once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes 
Surprised me in a luckless season, 
Turn'd all my mirth to lonely sighs. 
And quite subdued my better reason. 
Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve, 
And love you know's a reason fair, 
And much improved, as I beheve. 
The merry heart, that laugh' d at care. 

So now from idle wishes clear, 
I make the good I may not find ; 
Adown the stream I gently steer, 
And shift my sail with every wind. 
And half by nature, half by reason. 
Can still with pliant heart prepare, 
The mind, attuned to every season. 
The merry heart, that laughs at care. 

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream. 
Ye social feelings of the mind, 



*The foregoing fact is related in the work of M, 
Pinel sur rinsfinite. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



531 



Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam, 
And let the rest good-humour find. 
Yes, let me hail and welcome give 
To every joy my lot may share, 
And pleased and pleasing let me live 
With merry heart, that laughs at care. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 

TWO SONNETS. 
I. 

Love Thee ! — oh. Thou, the world's eternal Sire ! 

Whose palace is the vast infinity, 

Time, space, height, depth, oh God ! are full of 

Thee, 
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. 
Love Thee ! — but Thou art girt with vengeful 

fire, 
And mountains quake, and banded nations flee, 
And terror shakes the wide unfathom'd sea. 
When the heavens rock with thy tempestuous ire. 
Oh, Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend, 
That wast ere time, — shalt be when time is o'er; 
Ages and worlds begin — grow old — and end. 
Systems and suns thy changeless throne before, 
Commence and close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder and 

adore ! 

IL 
Love Thee ! — oh, clad in human lowliness, 
— In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows — 
Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our 

woes, — 
A fellow- wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! 
Love Thee ! whose every word but breathes to 

bless ! 
Through Thee, from long-seal'd lips, glad lan- 
guage flows ; 
The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, 

unclose ; 
And babes, unchid. Thy garment's hem caress. 
— I see Thee, doom'd by bitterest pangs to die, 
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move. 
With scourge, and taunt, and Avanton agony, 
While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above. 
Though all — even there — be radiant Deity ! 
— Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 



DEBORAH'S HYMN OF TRIUMPH. 

Thus sang Deborah and Barak, sonof Abinoam, 

In the day of victory thus they sang : 

That Israel hath wrought her mighty vengeance. 

That the willing people rush'd to battle. 

Oh, therefore, praise Jehovah I 

Hear, ye kings ! give ear, ye princes ! 

I to Jehovah, I will lift the song, 

I will sound the harp to Jehovah, God of Israel ! 

Jehovah ! when thou wentest forth from Seir ! 

When thou marchedst through the fields of Edom! 



Quaked the earth, and pour'd the heavens, 
Yea, the clouds pour'd down M'ith water : 
Before Jehovah's face the mountains melted, 
That Sinai before Jehovah's face,' 
The God of Israel. 

In the days of Shamgar, son of Anath, 

In Jael's days, untrodden were the highways, 

Through the winding by-path stole the traveller ; 

Upon the plains deserted lay the hamlets, 

Even till that I, till Deborah arose, 

Till I arose in Israel a mother. 

They chose new gods : 
War was in all their gates ! 
Was buckler seen, or lance, 
'Mong forty thousand sons of Israel? 

My soul is yours, ye chiefs of Israel ! 
And ye, the self-devoted of the people, 
Praise ye the Lord with me ! 
Ye that ride upon the snow-white asses ; 
Ye that sit to judge on rich divans 
Ye that plod on foot the open way, 
Come, meditate the song. 

For the noise of plundering archers by the wells of 
water. 

Now they meet and sing aloud Jehovah's righte- 
ous acts ; 

His righteous acts the hamlets sing upon the open 
plains. 

And enter their deserted gates the people of 
Jehovah. 

Awake, Deborah ! awake! 

Awake, uplift the song ! 

Barak, awake ! and lead your captives captive, 

Thou son of Abinoam ! 

With him a valiant few went down against the 

mighty, 
With me Jehovah's people went down against the 

strong. 

First Ephraim, from the Mount of Amalek, 
And after thee, the bands of Benjamin! 
From Machir came the rulers of the people, 
From Zebulon those that bear the marshal's staflT; 
And Issachar's brave princes came with Deborah, 
Issachar, the strength of Barak : 
They burst into the valley on his footsteps. 

By Reuben's fountains there was deep debating— 
Why sat'st thou idle, Reuben, 'mid thy herd- 
stalls ? 
Was it to hear the lowing of thy cattle ? 
By Reuben's fountains there was deep debating— 

And Gilead linger' d on the shores of Jordan — 
And Dan, why dwell' d he among his ships ? — 
And Asser dwell'd in his sea-shore havens. 
And sate upon his rock precipitous. 
But Zebulon was a death-defying people. 
And Napthali from off" the mountain heights. 

Came the kings and fought, 
Fought the kings of Canaan, 



532 



HENRY HART MILMAN 



By Tannach, by Megiddo's waters, 
For the golden booty that they won not. 

From the heavens that fought 'gainst Sisera, 
In their courses fought the stars against him : 
The torrent Kishon swept them down, 
That ancient river Kishon. 
So trample thou, my soul, upon their might. 

Then stamp' d the clattering hoofs of prancing 

horses 
At the flight, at the flight of the mighty. 

Curse ye Meroz, saith the angel of the Lord, 
Curse, a twofold curse upon her dastard sons ; 
For they came not to the succour of Jehovah, 
To the succour of Jehovah 'gainst the mighty. 

Above all women blest be Jael, 

Heber the Kenite's wife. 

O'er all. the women blest, that dwell in tents. 

Water he ask'd — she gave him milk, 
The curded milk, in her costliest bowl. 

Her left hand to the nail she set. 

Her right hand to the workman's hammer — 

Then Sisera she smote — she clave his head j 

She bruised — she pierced his temples. 

At her feet he bow'd ; he fell ; he lay ; 

At her feet he bow'd ; he fell ; 

Where he bow'd, there he fell dead. 

From the window she look'd forth, she cried. 
The mother of Sisera, through the lattice : 
" Why is his chariot so long in coming ? 
Why tarry the wheels of his chariot?" 
Her prudent women answer'd her — 
Yea, she herself gave answer to herself — 
" Have they not seized, not shared the spoil ? 
One damsel, or two damsels to each chief? 
To Sisera a many-coloured robe, 
A many-coloured robe, and richly broider'd. 
Many- colour' d, and broider'd round the neck." 

Thus perish all thine enemies, Jehovah ; 

And those who love thee, Kke the sun, shine forth, 

The sun in all its glory.* 



DOWNFALL OF JERUSALEM. 

FROM THE BOOK OF JEREMIAH. 

How solitary doth she sit, the many-peopled city ! 

She is become a widow, the great among the 
Nations ; 

The Queen among the provinces, how is she tri- 
butary ! 

Weeping — weeps she all the night ; the tears are 
on her cheeks ; 



*In the above translation an attempt is made to pre- 
serve something of a rhythmical flow. It adheres to 
the original language, excepting v/here an occasional 
word is, but rarely, insertedj for the sake of perspicuity. 



From among all her lovers, she hath no comforter ; 
Her friends have all dealt treacherously ; they are 
become her foes. i. 1, 2. 

The ways of Sion mourn : none come up to her 

feasts, 
All her gates are desolate; and her Priests do 

sigh; 
Her virgins wail ! herself, she is in bitterness. — i. 4. 

He hath pluck'd up his garden-hedge. He hath 

destroy'd his Temple ; 
Jehovah hath forgotten made the solemn feast and 

Sabbath ; 
And in the heat of ire He hath rejected King and 

Priest, 

The Lord his altar hath disdain'd, abhorred his 

Holy place, 
And to the adversary's hand given up his palace 

walls ; 
Our foes shout in Jehovah's house, as on a festal 

day. ii. 7, 8. 

Her gates are sunk into the earth, he hath broke 

through her bars ; 
Her Monarch and her Princes are now among 

the Heathen ; 
The Law hath ceased ; the Prophets find no vision 

from Jehovah. ' ii. 10. 

My eyes do fail with tears ; and troubled are my 

bowels ; 
My heart's blood gushes on the earth, for the 

daughter of my people ; 
Children and suckling babes lie swooning in the 

squares — 

They say unto their Mothers, where is corn and 

wine ? 
They swoon as they were wounded, in the city 

squares ; 
While ghdes the soul away into their Mother's 

bosom. ii. 11, 12. 

Even dragons, with their breasts drawn out, give 

suck unto their young ; 
But cruel is my people's daughter, as the ostrich 

in the desert ; 
The tongues of sucking infants to their palates 

cleave with thirst. 

Young children ask for bread, and no man breaks 

it for them ; 
Those that fed on dainties are desoWte in the 

streets ; 
Those brought up in scarlet, even those embrace 

the dunghill. iv. 3, 4, 5. 

Behold, Jehovah, think to whom thou e'er hast 

deal'd thus 1 
Have women ever eat their young, babes fondled 

in their hands ? 
Have Priest and Prophet e'er been slain in the 

Lord's Holy place ? 

In the streets, upon the ground, lie slain the young 
and old ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



533 



My -virgins and my youth have fallen by the 

sword ; 
In thy wrath thou'st slain them, thou hast had 

no mercy. 

' Thou hast summon'd all my terrors, as to a 

solemn feast ; 
None 'scaped, and none was left in Jehovah's 

day of wrath ; 
All that mine arms have borne and nursed, the 

enemy hath slain. ii. 20. 1, 2. 

Remember, Lord what hath befallen, 

Look down on our reproach. 
Our heritage is given to strangers, 

Our home to foreigners. 
Our water have we drank for money, 

Our fuel hath its price — v. 1, 2, 3. 

We stretch our hands to Egypt, 

To Assyria for our bread. 
At our life's risk we gain-our food, 

From the sword of desert robbers. 
Our skins are like an oven, parched, 

By the fierce heat of famine. 
Matrons in Sion have they ravish'd, 

Virgins in Judah's cities. 
Princes were hung up by the hand, 

And age had no respect. 
Young men are grinding at the mill, 

Boys faint 'neath loads of wood. 
The Elders from the gate have ceased, 

The young men from their music. 
The crown is fallen from her head, 
' Woe ! woe I that we have sinn'd. 
'Tis therefore that our hearts are faint, 

Therefore our eyes are dim. 
For Sion's inountain desolate, 

The foxes walk on it. 



HYMNS FOR CHURCH SERVICE. 

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 

The chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire 
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire : 
Self-moving it drives on its pathway of cloud, 
And the Heavens with the burthen of Godhead 
are bow'd. 

The glory ! the glory ! by myriads are pour'd 
The host of the Angels to wait on their Lord, 
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there, 
And all who the palm- wreath of victory wear. 

The trumpet ! the trumpet ! the dead have all 

heard : 
Lo, the depths of the stone-cover'd charnel are 

stirr'd : 
From the sea, fi-om the land, from the south and 

the north. 
The vast generations of men are come forth. 

The judgment ! the judgment ! the thrones are 

all set, 
Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are 

met! 



All !lesh is at once in the sight of the Lord, 
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word ! 

Oh mercy ! oh mercy ! look down from above, 
Creator ! on us thy sad children, with love ! 
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are 

driven, 
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven ! 



FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

Lord ! Thou didst arise and say 

To the troubled waters " Peace," 
And the tempest died away, 

Down they sank, the foamy seas ; 
And a calm and heaving sleep 
Spread o'er all the glassy deep. 
All the azure lake serene 
Like another Heaven was seen ! 

Lord ! Thy gracious word repeat 

To the billows of the proud ! 
Quell the tyrant's martial heat, 

Quell the fierce and changing crowd ! 
Then the earth shall find repose 
From its restless strife and foes ; 
And an imaged Heaven appear 
On our world of darkness here ! 



FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

The angel comes, he comes to reap 

The harvest of the Lord ! 
O'er all the earth with fatal sweep 

Wide waves his flamy sword. 

And who are they, in sheaves to bide 
The fire of Vengeance bound ! 

The tares, whose rank luxuriant pride 
Choked the fair crop around. 

And who are they, reserved in store 
God's treasure-house to fill? 

The wheat a hundred-fold that bore 
Amid surrounding ill. 

King of Mercy ! grant us power 

Thy fiery wrath to flee ! 
In thy destroying angel's hour, 

gather us to Thee ! 



QUINQUAGESIMA. 

Lord ! we sit and cry to Thee, 
Like the blind beside the way : 

Make our darken' d souls to see 
The glory of thy perfect day ! 

Lord ! rebuke our sullen night, 

And give Thyself unto our sight ! 

Lord ! we do not ask to gaze 
On our dim and earthly sun ; 

But the light that still shall blaze 
When every star its course hath run i 

The light that gilds thy blest abode, 

The glory of the Lamb of God ! 



534 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 



SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Oh help us, Lord ! each hour of need 
Thy heavenly succour give ; 

"Help us in thought, and word, and deed, 
Each hour on earth we hve. 

Oh help us, when our spirits bleed 

With contrite anguish sore. 
And when our hearts are cold and dead, 

help us, Lord, the more. 

O help us, through the prayer of faith 

More firmly to believe ; 
For still the more the servant hath, 

The more shall he receive. 

If strangers to Thy fold we call, 

Imploring at Thy feet 
The crumbs that from Thy table fall, 

'Tis all we dare entreat. 

But be it, Lord of Mercy, all. 
So Thou wilt grant but this ; 

The crumbs that from Thy table fall 
Are light, and hfe, and bHss. 

Oh help us, Jesus ! from on high, 
We know no help but Thee ; 

Oh ! help us so to live and die 
As thine in Heaven to be. 



SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
Hark ! all the tribes Hosanna cry ! 
Thine humble beast pursues his road, 
With palms and scatter'd garments strow'd ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 

In lowly pomp ride on to die ! 

Oh Christ ! Thy triumphs now begin 

O'er captive death and conquer'd Sin ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
The winged squadrons of the sky 
Look down with sad and wondering eyes, 
To see the approaching sacrifice ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh ; 
The father on His sapphire throne 
Expects His own anointed Son ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 

In lowly pomp ride on to die ! 

Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain ! 

Then take, oh God ! Thy power, and reign ! 



GOOD FRIDAY. 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
Faint and bleeding, who is He ? 
By the eyes so pale and dim, 
Streaming blood and writhing hmb. 



By the flesh with scourges torn, 
By the crown of twisted thorn, 
By the side so deeply pierced, 
By the baffled burning thirst. 
By the drooping death-dew'd brow. 
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
Dread and awful, who is He? 
By the sun at noon-day pale, 
Shivering rocks, and rending veil. 
By earth that trembles at His doom, 
By yonder saints who burst their tomb, 
By Eden, promised ere He died 
To the felon at His side, 
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow, 
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
Sad and dying, who is He ? _ 

By the last and bitter cry 
The ghost given up in agony ; 
By the hfeless body laid 
In the chamber of the dead ; 
By the mourners come to weep 
Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 
Crucified ! we know Thee now ; 
Son of Man! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou ! 



Bound 
Dread 
By the 
' ' Lord 
By the 
By the 
By the 
By the 
By the 
Son of 



upon th' accursed tree, 
and awful, who is He ? 
prayer for them that slew, 
! they know not what they do !" 
spoil'd and empty grave, 
souls He died to save, 
conquest He hath won, 
saints before His throne, 
rainbow round His brow, 
God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou! 



SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Lord ! have mercy when we strive 
To save through Thee our souls alive ! 
When the pamper'd flesh is strong. 
When the strife is fierce and long ; 
When our wakening thoughts begin. 
First to loathe their cherish'd sin. 
And our weary spirits fail. 
And our aching brows are pale. 
Oh then have mercy ! Lord ! 

Lord ! have mercy when we lie 
On the restless bed, and sigh. 
Sigh for Death, yet fear it still, 
From the thought of former ill; 
When all other hope is gone ; 
When our course is almost done ; 
When the dim advancing gloom 
Tells us that our hour is come, 
Oh then have mercy ! Lord ! 

Lord ! have mercy when we know 
First how vain this world below ; 
When the earliest gleam is given 
Of Thy bright but distant Heaven ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



535 



When our darker thoughts oppress, 
Doubts perplex and fears distress, 
And our sadden' d spirits dwell 
On the open gates of Hell, 
Oh then have mercy ! Lord ! 



SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

When our heads are bow'd with woe, 
When our bitter tears o'erflow ; 
When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne. 
Thou hast shed the human tear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

When the sullen death-bell tolls 
For our own departed souls ; 
When our final doom is near, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou hast bow'd the dying head ; 
Thou the blood of hfe hast shed ; 
Thou hast fill'd a mortal bier : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

When the heart is sad within 
With the thought of all its sin ; 
When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 

Thou the shame, the grief hast known, 
Though the sins were not thine own. 
Thou hast deign' d their load to bear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 



SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Great God of Hosts ! come down in thy glory ! 

Shake earth and heaven with thine awful tread : 
Seal Thou the book of our world's dark story : 

Summon to judgment the quick and the dead ! 

Great God of Hosts ! come down to rule o'er us ! 

Long have we pray'd for thy peaceful reign : 
Change this sad earth to an Eden before us ; 

Make it the mansion of bliss again ! 

Great God of Hosts I the dreadful, the glorious ! 
Come and set up thy kingly Throne : 



Over the legions of Hell victorious. 
Rule in the world of thy saints alone ! 



EIGHTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

When God came down from Heav'n — the living 
God— 
What signB and wonders mark'd his stately 
way? 
Brake out the winds in music where He trode ? 
Shone o'er the heav'ns a brighter, softer day ? 

The dumb began to speak, the blind to see, 
And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness fled ; 

The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with glee, 
And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead ! 

When God went back to heav'n — the living 
God- 
Rode He the heavens upon a fiery car ? 
Waved seraph-wings along his glorious road? 
Stood still to wonder each bright wandering 
star? 

Upon the cross He hung, and bow'd the head, 
And pray'd for them that smote, and them that 
curst ; 

And, drop by drop, his slow life-blood was shed, 
And his last hour of suffering was his worst ! 



TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Lord, have mercy, and remove us 

Early to thy place of rest. 
Where the heavens are calm above us. 

And as calm each sainted breast ! 

Holiest, hear us ! by the anguish 
On the cross Thou didst endure, 

Let no more our sad hearts languish 
In this weary world obscure ! 

Gracious ! — yet if our repentance 

Be not perfect and sincere. 
Lord, suspend thy fatal sentence, 

Leave us still in sadness here ! 

Leave us. Saviour ! till our spirit 
From each earthly taint is free, 

Fit thy kingdom to inherit. 
Fit to take its rest with "Thee t 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Percy Bysshe Shelley, eldest son of Sir Ti- 
mothy Shelley, Bart., of Castle Goring, was born 
at Field Place, Sussex, on the 4th of August, 
1792. He was educated at Eton, and at Univer- 
sity College, Oxford; was twice married, and has 
left two children, a daughter by the first wife, and 
a son — who is heir to the title — by the second. 
His widow, the daughter of William Godwin, is 
well known as the author of Frankenstein, and 
other novels. Mr. Shelley was cut off in the 
flower of his years and genius, on the 8th of July, 
1823 ; he was drowned in a storm on the Genoese 
coast, whither he was hastening, to his abode near 
the town of Lerici. 

It is within the scope neither of the limits nor 
the object of this work, to enter upon those con- 
troversial points, which so occupied the attention, 
and coloured the existence of this extraordinary 
man. Suffice it to say (for the man's nature 
can never be left out, where the Poet is con- 
cerned,) that whether his speculations were well 
or ill grounded, he is acknowledged on all hands 
to have been sincere in the pursuit of them ; and 
that his friends entertain the most enthusiastic re- 
gard for his memory. 

Mr. Shelley was tall, and slight of figure, with 
a singular union of general delicacy of organiza- 
tion and muscular strength. His hair was brown, 
prematurely touched with gray ; his complexion 
fair and glowing; his eyes gray and extremely 
vivid ; his face small and dehcately featured, es- 
pecially about the lower part ; and he had an ex- 
pression of countenance, when he was talking in 
his usual earnest fashion, which has been described 
elsewhere, as giving you the idea of something 
" seraphical." 

* Mr. Shelley's poetry resembles that creation, 
for the moral harmony of which he was so anxious. 
It is wonderfully flowing and energetic, round 
and harmonious as the orb, — no less conversant 
with seas and mountains, than with flowers and 
the minutest beauty, — and it hungers and thirsts 
after a certain beauty of perfection, as the orb rolls 
in loving attraction round the sun. He is remark- 
able for mixing a scholarly grandiosity of style 
with the most unaflected feehng and the most im- 
pulsive expression, and for being alike superna- 
tural and human in his enthusiasm, — that is to 
say, he is equally fond of soaring away into the 
most ethereal abstractions, as if he were spirit ; 



and of sympathizing with cvery-day flesh and 
blood, as though he had done nothing but suffer 
and enjoy with the most earthbound of his fellow- 
creatures. Whether interrogating Nature in the 
icy solitudes of Chamouny, or thrilling with the 
lark in the sunshine, or shedding indignant tears 
with sorrow and poverty, or pulling flowers Hke 
a child in a field, or pitching himself back into the 
depths of time and space, and discoursing with the 
first forms and gigantic shadows of creation ; he 
is alike in earnest and at home. His faults arise 
from the very excess of his sympathies with all 
things. He is sometimes obscure in the remoteness 
of his abstractions, and sometimes so impatient 
with the forms of error, as to seem contradictory 
to his own tolerant doctrine. He not only 

"Relishes all things sharply, 
Passion' d as we — " 

He is far more passioned, and relishes them with 
a sharpness that makes him cry out hke one con- 
stituted almost too delicately for existence. The 
cry is useful, because it begets attention to what 
might be otherwise too dully endured ; but it 
leaves his genius with a certain charge of impa- 
tience and excess upon it, that hazards, mean- 
while, that very enjoyment of the beautiful which 
is longed for, and which it is the more peculiar 
business of poetry to produce. 

The Editor is indebted for this Memoir of 
Shelley, and also for that of Keats, to the friend 
of both, Leigh Hunt. The dangerous tendency 
of Shelley's writings, — his mistakes, theoretical 
and practical, acknowledged in some instances by 
himself, — will not find from others the excuse 
they have found from those who had personal re- 
gard for the man, as well as admiration of the 
Poet. Shelley may have been, as is contended 
he was, sincere in his schemes for remodelling 
society ; but his doctrines are not, therefore, the 
less pernicious. Unhappily he died before judg- 
ment had arrived to the aid of genius : it is impos- 
sible to doubt that a mind so naturally generous 
would have atoned for many of the errors he had 
assisted to propagate, if he had lived to be con- 
vinced of them. He publicly disavowed (in the 
' ' Examiner' ' ) the republication of " Queen Mab ; ' ' 
and regretted that he had written it. It was the 
work of a youth exasperated by scholastic in- 
justice. 

(536) 



ADONAIS. 



537 



ADONAIS 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 



I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead! 
, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 
And teach them thine own sorrow ; say — with 

me 
Died Adonais ! — till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ! 

II. 

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he 

lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which 

flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid list'ning Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd 

breath, 
Rekindled all the fading melodies, 
With which, like flowers that mock the corse 

beneath. 
He had adorn' d and hid the coming bulk of 
death. 

III. 
O , weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning 

bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep. 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 
Descend: — oh, dream not that the amorous 

Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our 

despair. 

IV. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again.' 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died. 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely , when his country's pride, 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, 
Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified, 
Into the gulf of death ; but his clear sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of 
light. 

V. 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 
Not all to that bright station dared to climb ; 
And happier they their happiness who knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 
In which suns perish'd ; others more subHme, 

68 



Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, 

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; 

And some yet live, treading the thorny road, 

Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame'a 

serene abode. 

VI, 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has 

perish'd, 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 

cherish' d. 
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last. 
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
The broken hly lies — the storm is overpast. 

VII. 

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
He came ; and bought, with price of purest 

breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Itahan day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He Hes, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and hquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

VIII. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

0, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of thought, 
Who were his flocks, when near the living 

streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
The love which was its music, wander not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung; and 

mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet 

pain, 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home 

again. 

X. 

And one with tremblmg hand clasps his cold 

head. 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and 

cries, 
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some dream has loosen'd from his brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise, 



638 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 



She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain 
She faded, Uke a cloud which had outwept its 
rain. 

XI. 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Wash'd his light limbs, as if embalming them ; 
Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 

XII. 
Another Splendour on his mouth alit, 
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the 

breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and with music: the damp death 
■ Quench' d its caress upon his icy lips ; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonhght vapour, which the cold night clips, 
It flash'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its 
eclipse. 

XIII. 
And others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies, 
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering In- 
carnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twihght Phantasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the 

gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might 
seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 

XIV. 

All he had loved, and moulded into thought, 
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet 

sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, 
Wet with the tears which should adorn the 

ground, 
Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd. 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay. 
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their 

dismay. 

XV. 
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. 
And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay. 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains. 
Or amorous birds perch' d on the young green 

- spray. 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
Than those for whose disdain she pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen 
hear. 



XVI. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 

threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were. 
Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown 
For whom should she have waked the sullen 

year ? 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear. 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonais : wan they stood and sere 
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth, 
With dew all turn' d to tears ; odour, to sighing ruth. 

XVII. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale 
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent 

breast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 

guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Sea- 
son's bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
And build their mossy homes in field and brere. 
And the green hzard, and the golden snake, 
Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance 
awake. 

XIX. 

Through wood and stream, and field and hill 

and Ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has 

burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawn'd on Chaos ; in its stream immersed, 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; 
All baser things pant with fife's sacred thirst; 
Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's delight, 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might, 

XX. 

The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour 
Is changed to fragrance,' they illumine death, 
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; 
Naught we know, dies. Shall that alone which 

knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning ? — the intense atom glows 
A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. 

XXI. 

[ Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
I But for our grief, as if it had not been. 



ADONAIS. 



539 



And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
Meet mass'd in death, who lends what hfe must 

borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, 
Evening must usher night, night urge the 

morrow, 
Month follow month with woe, and year wake 

year to sorrow. 

XXII. 
He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
" Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mo- 
ther, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears and 

sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes, 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried: " Arise !" 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 
stung. 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour 
sprung. 

XXIII. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings. 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 
So struck, so roused, so wrapt Urania ; 
So sadden' d round her like an atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way. 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 

XXIV. 
Out of her secret Paradise she sped, 
Through camps and cities, rough with stone 

and steel. 
And human hearts, which to her aery tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp 

than they. 
Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 
Whose sacred blood, hke the young tears of 

May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving 

way. 

XXV. 
In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flash'd through those Umbs, so late her dear 

delight. 
" Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless. 
As silent hghtning leaves the starless night ! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania: her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met 

her vain caress. 

XXVI. 
, " Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 



And in my heartless breast and burning brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else 

survive, 
With food of saddest memory kept alive. 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art I 
But I am chain' d to Time, and cannot thence 

depart ! 

XXVII. 
" O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 
Too soon, and M'ith weak hands though mighty 

heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh! where was then 
Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have fiU'd its crescent sphere, 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee 

like deer. 

XXVIII. 

" The herded wolves, bold only to pursue ; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how they 

fled, 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow. 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no second 

blow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as 

they go. 

XXIX. 

" The sun comes forth, and many reptil€(B 

spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gather' d into death without a dawn, 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and 

when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared its 

light ■ 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful 

night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain shepherds 

came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent. 
An early but enduring monument, 
Came, veihng all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wiles lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music firom his 

tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionless 



540 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



• " As the last cloud of an expiring storm 

Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked lovehness, 
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their 
prey. 

XXXIL 

A pard-Hke Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation mask'd; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — jt can scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a faUing shower, 
A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken ? On the withering flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart 
may break. 

XXXIII. 

His head was bound with pansies over-blown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 
And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone. 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it ; of that 

crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart; 
A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's 

dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears ; well knew that 

gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own; 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sang new sorrow ; sad Urania scann'd 
The Stranger's mien, and murmur' d: "Who 

art thou ?" 
He answer' d not, but with a sudden hand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow. 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's, — Oh! that it 

should be so ! 

XXXV. 

What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead ? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, 
In mockery of monumental stone. 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
Taught, soothed, loved, honour'd the departed 

one ; 
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs. 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? 
The nameless worm would now itself disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 



Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre 
unstrung. 

XXXVIL 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from rae, 
Thou noteless blot on a remember' d name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom, when thy fangs o'erflow: 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
And hke a beaten hound tremble thou shall — as 



XXXVIII. 

Nor let us weep that our dehght is fled 
Far from these carrion- kites that scream below ; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. — 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unquenchably the 
same. 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth 
of shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace ! peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 
He hath awaken'd from the dream of life — 
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
And in mad trance, .strike with our spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day. 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our 
living clay. 

XL. 
He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall delight. 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 

XLI. 
He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn 
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou 

Air, 
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst 

thrown 
O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair ! 

XLII. 
He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 



ADONAIS, 



541 



Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
He IS a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone. 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has whhdrawn his being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never-wearied 
love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

XLIII. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 

Sweeps through the dull dense world, compel- 
ling there 
- All new successions to the forms they wear ; 

Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its 
flight 

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; 

And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's 
light. 

XLIV. 

The splendours of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not. 
Like stars to their appointed height they climb. 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
And move hke winds of Ught on dark and stormy 



XLV. 

The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown 

Rose fi-om their thrones built beyond mortal 

thought. 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved : 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 

XLVL 

And many more, whose names on earth are 

dark, 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark. 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
"Thou art become as one of us," they cry, 
" It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty. 
Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 

throng !" 

XLVII. 

Who mourns for Adonais ? oh come forth, 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 

Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all v/orlds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 



Even to a point within our day and night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to 
the brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
O, not of him, but ofour joy : 'tis naught 
That ages, empires, and rehgions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their 

prey ; 
And he is gather' d to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 

XLIX. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 
And where its wrecks like shatter' d mountains 

rise. 
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness, 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is 

spread. 

L. 

And gray walls moulder round, on which dull 

Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transform' dtcfmarble ; and beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of 

death, 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd 

breath. 

LI. 
Here, pause : these graves are all too young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrows which consign'd 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set. 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home. 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 

LII. 

The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's Ught for ever shines, Earth's shadows 

fly; 

Life, hke a dome of many-colour'd glass. 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost 

seek! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky, 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, areweait 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to 

speak. 



MS 



PERCY BYSSHE; SHELLEY. 



Lin. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 

Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers 

near: 
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can join to- 
gether. 

LIV. 

That Light whose smiles kindle the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst ; now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

LV. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembhng 

throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven : 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of 

Heaven, 
The soul of Adonaia*. hke a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EU- 
GANEAN HILLS. 

OCTOBEK, 1818. 



These lines were written after a day's excursion 
among those lonely mountains which surround what 
was once the retreat, and where is now the sepul- 
chre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn 
the insertion of the introductory lines, which image 
forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency 
by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst 
of an Italian sunrise in autumn on the highest peak 
of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my 
excuse, that they were not erased at the request of a 
dear friend, with whom added years of intercourse 
only add to my apprehension of its value, and who 
would have had more right than any one to complain, 
that she has not been able to extinguish in me the 
very power of delineating sadnes'^. 



Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide eea of misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan, 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 

Drifting on his dreary way, 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky, 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 

And behind the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet, 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep; 

And sinks down, down, hke that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will, 

But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave. 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet; 

What, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may. 

Can he dream before that day 

To find a refuge from distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress t 

Then 'twill wreak him little woe 

Whether such there be or no : 

Senseless is the breast, and cold, , 

Which relenting love would fold ; 

Bloodless are the veins and chill 

Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 

Every little living nerve 

That from bitter words did swerve 

Round the tortured lips and brow, 

Are like sapless leaflets now 

Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally. 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 

Lies a solitary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones 

On the margin of the stones. 

Where a few gray rushes stand. 

Boundaries of the sea and land: 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews', as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale ; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughter' d town, 

When a king in glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides : 

Those unburied bones around 

There is many a mournful sound ; 

There is no lament for him. 

Like a sunless vapour, dim. 

Who once clothed with life and thoHgfit 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 

Ay, many flowering islands lie 
III the waters of wide Agony: 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



543 



To such a one this morn was led 
My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
'Mid the mountains Euganean, 
I stood listening to the peean 
With which the legion' d rooks did hail 
The sun's uprise majestical; 
Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
Through the dewy mist they soar 
Like gray shades, till th' eastern heaven 
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie 
In the unfathomable sky. 
So their plumes of purple grain, 
Starr'd with drops of golden rain, 
Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
As in silent multitudes 
On the morning's fitful gale 
Through the broken mist they sail, 
And the vapours cloven and gleaming 
Follow down the dark steep streaming, 
Till all is bright, and clear, and still, 
- Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair ; 
Underneath day's azure eyes 
Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, — 
A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls, 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline ; 
A.nd before that chasm of fight. 
As within a furnace bright, 
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of fire. 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 
From the marble shrines did rise. 
As to pierce the dome of gold 
Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt Chy ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier, 
A less drear ruin then than now. 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne, among the waves 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew, 
O'er thine isles depopulate, 
And all is in its ancient state, 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own. 
Topples o'er ihe abandon'd sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 



The fisher on Jiis watery way, 
Wandering at the close of day, 
Will spead his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore, ' 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
Bursting o'er the starHght deep. 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 
Quivering through aerial gold. 
As I now behold them here. 
Would imagine not they were 
Sepulchres, where human forms, 
Like pollution-nourish' d worms. 
To the corpse of greatness cling. 
Murder' d, and now mouldering : 
But if Freedom should awake 
In her omnipotence, and shake 
From the Celtic Anarch's hold 
All the keys of dungeons cold, 
Where a hundred cities He 
Chain'd like thee, ingloriously, 
Thou and all thy sister band 
Might adorn this sunny land. 
Twining memories of old time 
With new virtues more sublime ; 
If not, perish thou and they. 
Clouds which stain truth's rising day 
By her sun consumed away, 
Earth can spare ye : while like flowers. 
In the waste of years and hours, 
From your dust new nations spring 
With more kindly blossoming. 

Perish ! let there only be 
Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, 
As the garment of thy sky 
Clothes the world immortally, 
One remembrance, more sublime 
Than the tatter'd pall of Time, 
Which scarce hides thy visage wan; 
That a tempest-cleaving swan 
Of the songs of Albion, 
Driven from his ancestral streams 
By the might of evil dreams, 
Found a nest in thee; and Ocean 
Welcomed him with such emotion 
That its joy grew his, and sprung 
From his lips like music flung 
O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 
Chastening terror : what though yet 
Poesy's unfailing river. 
Which through Albion winds for ever, 
Lashing with melodious wave 
Many a sacred poet's grave, 
Mourn its latest nursling fled ! 
What though thou with all thy dead 
Scarce can for this fame repay 
Aught thine own, — oh, rather say. 
Though thy sins and slaveries foul 
Overcloud a sunlike soul ! 
As the ghost of Homer cUngs 
Round Scamander's wasting springs; 
As divinest Shakspeare's might 
Fills Avon and the world with light, 
Like omniscient power, which he . 
Imaged 'mid mortality; 



544 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



As the love from Petrarch's urn, 
Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart 
Sees things unearthly ; so thou art. 
Mighty spirit : so shall be ^ 

The city that did refuge thee. 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky 

Like thought-winged Liberty, 

Till the universal light 

Seems to level plain and height ; 

From the sea a mist was spread, 

And the beams of morn lie dead 

On the towers of Venice now, 

Like its glory long ago. 

By the skirts of that gray cloud 

Many-domed Padua proud 

Stands, a peopled solitude, 

'Mid the harvest-shining plain. 

Where the peasant heaps his grain 

In the garner of his foe, 

And the milk-white oxen slow 

With the purple vintage strain, 

Heap'd upon the creaking wain, 

That the brutal Celt may swill 

Drunken sleep with savage will; 

And the sickle to the sword 

Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 

Like a weed whose shade is poison, 

Overgrows this region's foison. 

Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 

To destruction's harvest-home : 

Men must reap the things they sow. 

Force from force must ever flow. 

Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 

That love or reasoii cannot change 

The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 

Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals. 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Play'd at dice for Ezzelin, 
Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" 
And Sin cursed to lose the wager. 
But Death promised, to assuage her, 
That he would petition for 
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
When the destined years were o'er, 
Over all between the Po 
And the eastern Alpine snow, 
Under the mighty Austrian. 
Sin smiled so as Sin only can, 
And since that time, ay, long before. 
Both have ruled from shore to shore, 
That incestuous pair, who follow 
Tyrants as the sun the swallow. 
As Repentance follows Crime, 
And as changes follow Time. 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 
Padua, now no more is burning ; 
Like a meteor, whose wild way 
Is lost over the grave of day, 
It gleams betray'd and to betray : 
Once remotest nations came 
To adore that sacred flame. 
When it lit not many a hearth 
On this cold and gloomy earth : 



Now new fires from antique light 

Spring beneath the wide world's might, 

But their spark lies dead in thee. 

Trampled out by tyranny. 

As the Norway woodman quells. 

In the depth of piny dells, 

One light flame among the brakes, 

While the boundless forest shakes. 

And its mighty trunks are torn 

By the fire thus lowly born ; 

The spark beneath his feet is dead, 

He starts to see the flames it fed 

Howling through the darken' d sky 

With a myriad tongues victoriously, 

And sinks down in fear : so thou, 

O tyranny ! beholdest now 

Light around thee, and thou hearest 

The loud flames ascend, and fearest , 

Grovel on the earth; ay, hide 

In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now: 

'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 

When a soft and purple mist 

Like a vaporous amethyst, 

Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of Heaven's profound " 

Fills the overflowing sky ; 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath, the leaves unsodden 

Where the infant frost has trodden 

With his morning-winged feet. 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 

And the red and golden vines. 

Piercing with their trellis' d lines 

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 

The dun and bladed grass no less. 

Pointing from this hoary tower 

In the windless air ; the flower 

Glimmering at my feet ; the hne 

Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 

In the south dimly islanded; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun ; 

And of living things each one ; 

And my spirit, which so long 

Darken'd this swift stream of song, 

Interpenetrated lie 

By the glory of the sky ; 

Be it love, light, harmony. 

Odour, or the soul of all 

Which from Heaven lik« dew doth fall, 

Or the mind which feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universe. 

Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
Leading the infantine moon. 
And that one star, which to her 
Almost seems to minister 
Half the crimson light she brings 
From the sunset's radiant springs: 
And the soft dreams of the morn 
(Which like winged winds had borne 
To that silent isle, which lies 
'Mid remember'd agonies. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



54^. 



The frail bark of this lone being,) 
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 
And its ancient pilot, Pain, 
Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of life and agony : 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, 

On some rock the wild wave wraps, 

With folded wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built. 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 

In a dell 'mid lawny hills, 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round, 

And the light and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 

We may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air, 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm. 

And the winds, whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies, 

And the love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life, 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood. 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain. 

And the earth grow young again. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew. 
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair. 
Like the Spirit of Love felt every where; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness. 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snow-drop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
69 



And their breath was mix'd with fresh odour, sent 
From the turf, Uke the voice and the instrument, 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall. 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intenser 
It was felt like an odour within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare : 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
As a Maenad, its moonlight- colour' d cup. 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every chme 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom , 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 

And starry river-buds glimmer'd by. 

And around them the soft stream did glide and 

dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss. 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 
As flowers which drooping as day droop' d too, 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, 
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it,) 

When Heaven's bhthe winds had unfolded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. 
Shone smihng to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 

With the light and the odour its neighbour shed. 



546 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Like young lovers whom youth and love make 

dear, 
Wrapp'd and fill'd by their mutual atmosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant which could give small 

fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the 

root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 

giver — 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free. 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
Laden with light and odour, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
They wander like spirits among the spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ; 

The quivering vapours of dim noontide. 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide. 
In which every sound, and odour, and beam. 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from Heaven 

above. 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all 

love. 
And delight, though less bright, was far more 

deep. 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep. 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 

drown' d 
In an ocean of dreams ydthout a sound ; 
Whose waves never mark, though they eyer 

impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail. 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mix'd with the dreams of the Sensitive 
Plant.) 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
tJpgather'd into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight. 
The feeblest and yet the favourite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 



There was a Power m this sweet place, 

An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 

Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, 

Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind. 

Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind. 

Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and 

motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth, 
Laugh'd round her footsteps up from the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 

But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 

Told, whilst the morn kiss'd the sleep from her 

eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber than Para- 
dise: 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake 
Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake, 
As if yet around her he lingering were. 
Though the veil of dayhght conceal' d him from 
her. 

Her step seem'd to pity the grass it prest ; 
You might hear by the heaving of her breast. 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. 

And wherever her airy footstep trod. 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark-green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender hands, 
And sustain'd them with rods and osier bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants, she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 

And all killing insects and gnawing worms. 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms. 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof. 
Into the rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full. 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banish'd insects, whose intent, 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris, 
Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that 

kiss 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



547 



The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did 

she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Where butterflies dream of the life to come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of summer- tide, 
And ere the first leaf look' d brown — she died ! 



Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awaken'd, were, 
Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius, 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, 
And the sobs of the mourners deep and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
And the silent motions of passing death, 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone. 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and foul. 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul ; 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer into the autumn flow'd, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode. 
Though the noonday sun look'd clear and bright. 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow. 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf after leaf, day after day, 
Were mass'd into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and 

red. 
And white with the whiteness of what is dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds. 

Out of their birth-place of ugly weeds. 

Till they clung round many a sweet flower's 

stem. 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 



The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks, 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless net-work of parasite bowers 
Mass'd into ruin, and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the snow, 

All loathliest weeds began to grow. 

Whose coarse leaves were splash' d with many a 

speck. 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's 

back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank. 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank 
Stretch'd out its long and hollow shank. 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, 
Fill'd the place with a monstrous undergrowth, 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, 
Livid, and starr'd with a lurid dew. 

And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould, 
Started like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Their mass rotted off" them, flake by flake. 

Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's 

stake ; 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

Spawn, weeds, and fihh, a leprous scum. 
Made the running rivulet thick and dumb. 
And at its outlet, flags huge as stakes 
Damm'd it up with roots knotted like water- 
snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still. 
The vapours arose which have strength to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, 
At night they were darkness no star could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burn'd and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid. 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves, which together grew, 
Were changed to a bhght of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through every pore. 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his whip : 
One choppy finger was on his lip : 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills. 
And they clank'd at his girdle like manacles; 



548 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



His breath was a chain which without a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 
He came, fiercely driven in his chariot- throne 
By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of living 

death 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
"The moles and the dormice died for want : 
The birds dropp'd stiff from the frozen air, 
And were caught in the branches naked and 
bare. 

First there came down a thawing rain, 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, 
Then there steam'd up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and 

stiff. 
And snapp'd them off with his rigid griff. 

When winter had gone and spring came back, 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, 

and darnels, 
Rose like the dead from their ruin'd charnels. 



CONCLUSION. 

Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scatter'd love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess : but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife, 
Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it, 
To own that death- itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair, 
And all sweet shapes and odours there, 
In truth have never pass'd away : 
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change : their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND.* 

I. 

O WILD West Wind! thou breath of Autumn's 

being ! 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 

dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O, thou, 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within hs grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds Uke flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours, plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving every where ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O, hear ! 

11. 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's 

commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and 

Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O, hear ! 

III. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreama 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baia3's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 



* This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a 
wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day 
when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at 
once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours 
which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as 
I foresaw, at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and 
rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and light- 
ning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the 
third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vege - 
tation at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, 
sympathizes with that of the land in the change of sea- 
sons, and is consequently influenced by the winds 
which announce it. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



549 



All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! — Thou, 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea blooms, and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves : O, hear ! 

IV. 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O, uncontrollable ! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain' d and bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are faUing Uke its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. 
Sweet, though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one I 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my hps to unawaken'd earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



AN ODE, 

WRITTEN, OCTOBER, 1819, BEFORE THE SPA- 
NIARDS HAD RECOVERED THEIR LIBERTY. 

Arise, arise, arise ! 
There is blood on the earth that denies ye 
bread ; ' 

Be your wounds like eyes 
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. 
What other grief were it just to pay ? 
Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were 

they ; 
Who said they were slain on the battle day ? 



Awaken, awaken, awaken ! 
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes; 

Be the cold chains shaken 
To the dust where your kindred repose, 
repose ! 
Their bones in the grave will start and move, 
When they hear the voices of those they love, 
Most loud in the holy combat above. 

Wave, wave high the banner! 
When freedom is riding to conquest by : 

Though the slaves that fan her 
Be famine and toil, giving sigh for sigh. 
And ye who attend her imperial car. 
Lift not your hands in the banded war. 
But in her defence whose children ye are. 

Glory, glory, glory, 
To those who have greatly suffer' d and done ! 

Never name in story 
Was greater than that which ye shall have 
won. 
Conquerors have conquer'd their foes alone,' 
Whose revenge, pride, and power they have over- 
thrown : 
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. 

Bind, bind every brow 
With coronals of violet, ivy, and pine : 

Hide the blood-stains now 
With hues which sweet nature has made 
divine : 
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity: 
But let not the pansy among them be ; 
Ye were injured, and that means memory. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner torn but flying, 
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind. 

Byron. 



I. 

A GLORIOUS people vibrated again 

The lightning of the nations: Liberty 
From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er 
Spain, 
Scattering contagious fii-e into the sky, 
Gleam'd. My soul spurn'd the chains of its 
dismay. 
And, in the rapid plumes of song. 
Clothed itself, sublime and strong; 
As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among, 
Hovering inverse o'er its accustom'd prey; 
Till from its station in the heaven of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void was from behind it flung 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there 

came 
A voice out of the deep : I will record the 



550 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



11. 

The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth : 

The burning stars of the abyss were hurl'd 
Into the depths of heaven. The daedal earth, 

That island in the ocean of the world, 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air ; 
But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a curse, 
For thou wert not : but power from worst produ- 
cing worse, 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, 
And of the birds, and of the watery forms. 
And there was war among them, and despair 
Within them, raging without truce or terms 
The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groan'd, for beasts warr'd on beasts, and worms 

on worms, 
And men on men ; each heart was as a hell of 
storms. 

in. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion 
Of the Sun's throne : palace and pyramid, 
Temple and prison, to many a swarming 
million. 
Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, 
For thou wert not ; but o'er the populous solitude, 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves, 

Hung tyranny; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves ; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide, 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and blood, 
Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed, 
Drove the astonish'd herds of men from every 
side. 

IV. 

The nodding promontories, and blue isles. 

And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves 
Of Greece, bask'd glorious in the open smiles 

Of favouring heaven : from their enchanted caves 
Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 
On the unapprehensive wild. 
The vine, the corn, the olive mild. 
Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; 
And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 
Like the man's thought dark in the infant's 
brain. 
Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, 
Art's deathless dreams lay veil'd by many a 
vein 
Of Parian stone ; and yet a speechless child. 

Verse murmur'd, and Philosophy did strain 
Her lidless eyes for thee ; when o'er the ^gean 
main 

V. 
Athens arose : a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 

Of kingliest masonry : the ocean-floors 
Pave it ; the evening sky pavilions it ; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each head 



Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded, 
A divine work ! Athens diviner yet 

Gleam'd with its crest of columns, on the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set ; 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill 
Peopled with forms that mock the eternal dead 
In marble immortahty, that hill 
Which was thine earhest throne and latest 
oracle. 

VI. 

Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and for ever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 
With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past ; 
Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks 



A winged sound of joy, and love and wonder, 

Which soars where Expectation never flew, 
Rending the veil of space and time asunder ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and 
dew ; 
One sun illumines heaven ; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new. 
As Athens doth the world with thy delight re- 
new. 

VII. 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest, 

Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmsean Maenad,* 
She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest 

From that Elysian food was yet unwean'd; 
And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified ; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side. 
Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 
But when tears stain'd thy robe of vestal white- 
ness, 
And gold profaned thy capitohan throne. 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness, 
The senate of the tyrants : they sunk prone 
Slaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sigh'd 
Faint echoes of Ionian song ; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown, 

VIII. 
From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill. 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main. 
Or utmost islet inaccessible. 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign, 
Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks. 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn. 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared un- 
learn ? 
For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks 
Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Druid's 
sleep. 
What if the tears rain'd through thy shatter' d 
locks 
Were quickly dried ? for thou didst groan, not 
weep, 
When from hs sea of death to kill and burn, 



* See the Bacchse of Euripides. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



$51 



The Galilean serpent forth did creep, 

And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. 

IX. 

A thousand years the Earth cried, Where art 
thou? 
And then the shadow of thy coming fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cinctured brow : 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel, 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crown'd 
majesty ; 
That multitudinous anarchy did sweep, 

And burst around their walls, like idle foam, 
Whilst from the human spirit's deepest deep, 
Strange melody with love and awe struck 
dumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art, which cannot die. 
With divine wand traced on our earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting dome. 

X. 

Thou huntress swifter than the Moon ! thou terror 
Of the world's wolves ! thou bearerof the quiver, 
Whose sun-like shafts pierce tempest-winged 
Error, 
As light may pierce the clouds when they dis- 
sever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance : 
Like lightning, from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay ; 
And England's prophets hail'd thee as their 
queen, 
In songs whose music cannot pass awaj'. 
Though it must flow for ever : not unseen 
Before the spirit-sighted countenance 

Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected 
mien. 

XI. 

The eager hours and unreluct'ant years 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood, 
Tramphng to silence their loud hopes and fears, 

Darkening each other with their multitude, 
And cried aloud. Liberty ! Indignation 
Answer' d Pity from her cave ; 
Death grew pale within the grave, 
And desolation howl'd to the destroyer, Save ! 
When like heaven's sun, girt by the exhalation 

Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise, 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
Like shadows : as if day had cloven the skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western wave. 
Men started, staggering with a glad surprise. 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 

XII. 

Thou heaven of earth ! what spells could pall 
thee then, 

In ominous echpse ? A thousand years. 
Bred from the slime of deep oppression's den. 

Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears. 
Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away. 



How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and folly's mitred 
brood ! 
When one, like them, but mightierfar than they, 
The Anarch of thine own bewilder'd powers, 
Rose : armies mingled in obscure array 
Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred 
bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pursued. 
Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours, 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their an- 
cestral towers. 

XIII. 

England yet sleeps: was she not call'd of old? 

Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder 
Vesuvius wakens JEtna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder i 
O'er the ht waves every iEolian isle 
From Fithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus : 
They cry. Be dim, ye lamps of heaven suspended 
o'er us. 
Her chains are threads of gold, she need but 
smile 
And they dissolve ; but Spain's were linka of 
steel. 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny ! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us. 
In the dim West ; impress us from a seal, 
All ye have thought and done ! Time cannot 
dare conceal. 

XIV. 
Tomb of Arminius ! render up thy dead, 

Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's staff, 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's head ! 

Thy victory shall be his epitaph. 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine, 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope ? thou art already free 1 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 
And glorious world ! thou flowery wilder- 
ness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 
Where desolation, clothed with loveliness, 
Worships the thing thou wert ! Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart ; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred 
palaces. 

XV. 

0, that the free would stamp the impious name 

Of* * * * into the dust ! or write it there, 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 

Were as a serpent's path, which the light air 
Erases, and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard : 
Lift the victory-flashing sword, 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word. 
Which weak itself as stubble, yet can bind 

Into a mass, irrefragably firm. 
The axes and the rods which awe mankind ; 
The sound has poison in it, 'tis the sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorr'd; 



552 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term, 
To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. 

XVI. 

O, that the wise from their bright minds would 
kindle 
Such lamps within the dome of this dim world, 
That the pale name of Priest might shrink and 
dwindle 
Into the hell from which it first was hurl'd, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure ; 
Till human thoughts might kneel alone 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the power unknown ! 
O, that the words which make the thoughts 
obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds of glim- 
mering dew 
From a white lake blotheaven'sblue portraiture, 
Were stript of their thin masks and various 
hue, 
And frowns and smiles and splendours not their 
own, 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to receive 
its due. 

xvn. 

He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 
Can be between the cradle and the grave, 
Crown' d him the King of Life. O vain en- 
deavour ! 
If on his own high will, a willing slave, 
He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need, 
And power in thought be as the tree within the 
seed ? 
Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor 

Diving on fiery wings to Nature's throne. 
Checks the great mother stooping to caress 
her, 
And cries : Give me, thy child, dominion 
Over all height and depth ? if Life can breed 
New wants, and wealth from those who toil and 
groan 
Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for 
one. 

XVIIL 

Come.Thou, but lead put of the inmost cave 
Of man's deep spirit, as the morning-star 
Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave. 

Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car 
Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame ; 
Comes she not, and come ye not, 
Rulers of eternal thought. 
To judge, with solemn truth, life's ill-apportion' d 
lot? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame 
Of what has been, the Hope of what will be ! 
O, Liberty! if such could be thy name, 
Wert thou disjoin' d from these, or they from 
thee : 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought 

By blood or tears, have not the wise and free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears ? The solemn 
harmony 



XIX. 

Paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing 

To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn ; 
Then, as a wild swan, when subhmely winging 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden light 
On the heavy-sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its brain ; 
As summer clouds dissolve, unburthen'd of theh" 
rain ; 
As a far taper fades with fading night. 

As a brief insect dies with dying day, 
My song, its pinions disarray'd of might, 
Droop'd ; o'er it closed the echoes far away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sustain. 

As waves which lately paved his watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous 
play. 



ODE TO NAPLES.* 

EPODE I. a. 

I STOOD within the city disinterr'd ; t 
And heard the autumnal leaves like light foou 
falls 
Of spirits passing through the streets; and heard 
The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals 
Thrill through those roofless halls ; 
The oracular thunder penetrating shook 

The Ustening soul in my suspended blood ; 
I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke — 
I felt, but heard not : — through white columns 
glow'd 
The isle-sustaining Ocean flood, 
A plane of light between two Heavens of azure : 
Around me gleam' d many a bright sepulchre 
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure 
Were to spare Death, had never made erasure ; 
But every living lineament was clear 
As in the sculptor's thought ; and there 
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and pine, 
Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded snow, 
Seem'd only not to move and grow 
Because the crystal silence of the air 

Weigh' d on their life ; even as the Power divine, 
Which then lull'd all things, brooded upon mine. 

EPODE IT. a. 

Then gentle winds arose. 

With many a mingled close 
Of wild iEolian sound and mountain odour keen ; 

And where the Baieen ocean 

Welters with air-hke motion, 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green, 



* The Author has connected many recollections of 
his visit to Pompeii and Baiae with the enthusiasm ex- 
cited by the intelligence of the proclamation of a Con- 
stitutional Government at Naples. This has given a 
tinge of picturesque and descriptive imagery to the in- 
troductory Epodes which depicture these scenes, and 
some of the majestic feelings permanently connected 
with the scene of this animating event. — Author's JVote. 

+ Pompeii. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



353 



Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves, 
Even as the ever stormless atmosphere 
Floats o'er the Elysian realm, 
It bore me like an Angel, o'er the waves 
Of sunUght, whose swift pinnace of dewy air 
No storm can overwhelm ; 
I sail'd, where ever flows 
Under the calm Serene 
A spirit of deep emotion, 
From the unknown graves 
Of the dead kings of Melody.* 
Shadowy Aornos darken' d o'er the helm 
The horizontal ether ; heaven stript bare 
Its depths over Elysium, where the prow 
Made the invisible water white as snow ; 
From that Typhaean mount, Inarime 
There stream' d a sunhke vapour, like the standard 
Of some ethereal host ; 
Whilst from all the coast. 
Louder and louder, gathering round, there wan- 

der'd 
Over the oracular woods and divine sea 
Prophesyings which grew articulate — 
They seize me — I must speak them — be they fate ! 

STROPHE tt. 1. 

Napies ! thou Heart of men which ever pantest 

Naked beneath the lidless eye of heaven ! 
Elysian City, which to calm enchantest 
The mutinous air and sea! they round thee, 

even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruin'd Paradise 

Long lost, late won, and yet but half regain'd ! 
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice. 
Which armed Victory offers up unstain'd 
To Love, the flower- enchain' d ! 
Thou which wert once, and then did cease to be, 
Now art, and henceforth ever shall be, free. 
If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can avail. 
Hail, hail, all hail ! 

STROPHE |3. 2. 

Thou youngest giant birth 

Which from the groaning earth 
Leap'st, clothed in armour of impenetrable scale 1 

Last of the Intercessors ! 

Who 'gainst the Crown'd Transgressors 
Pleadest before God's love ! Array' d in Wis- 
dom's mail. 

Wave thy lightning lance in mirth ; 

Nor let thy high heart fail, 
Though from their hundred gates the leagued 
Oppressors 

With hurried legions move ! 

Hail, hail, all hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE a. 

What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme 

Freedom and thee ? thy shie d is as a mirror 
To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce 
gleam 
To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer, 
A new Acteon's error 
Shall their' 8 have been — devour' d by their own 
hounds ! 



Be thou like the imperial Basihsk, 
Killing thy foe with unapparem wounds ! 

Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk 

Aghast she pass from the Earth's disk: 
Fear not, but gaze — for freemen mightier grow, 
And slaves, more feeble, gazing on their foe. 

If Hope and Truth and Justice may avail, 

Thou shalt be great. — All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE (3. 2. 

From Freedom's form divine. 

From Nature's inmost shrine, 
Strip every impious gawd, rend Error veil by vefl s 

O'er Ruin desolate, 

O'er Falsehood's fallen state, 
Sit thou subhme, unawed; be the Destroyer pale S 

And equal laws be thine. 

And winged words let sail, 
Freighted with truth even from the throne of God 2 

That wealth, surviving fate, 

Be thou.— All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE ». y. 

Didst thou not start to hear Spain's thrilling peeaa 

From land to land re-echoed solemnly, 
Till silence became music ? From the Mean* 
To the cold Alps, eternal Italy 
Starts to hear thine ! The Sea 
Which paves the desert streets of Venice laughs 

In hght and music; widow'd Genoa wan, 
By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs, 
Murmuring, where is Doria? fair Milan, 
Within whose veins long ran 
The viper' st palsying venom, hfts her heel 
To bruise his head. The signal and the seal - 
(If Hope and Truth and Justice can avaiD 
Art Thou of all these hopes. — O hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE |3. y. 

Florence ! beneath the sun. 
Of cities fairest one. 
Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expecta- 
tion: 
From eyes of quenchless hope 
Rome tears the priestly cope, 
As ruling once by power, so now by admiration. 
An athlete stript to run 
From a remoter station 
For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore, — 
As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail, 
So now may Fraud and Wrong ! O hail ! 

EPODE 1. |3. 

Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms 

Array'd against the ever-living Gods? 
The crash and darkness of a thousand storms 
Bursting their inaccessible abodes 

Of crags and thunder-clouds ? 
See ye the banners blazon'd to the day, 

Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride ? 
Dissonant threats kill Silence far away, 
The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden 
wide 
With iron light is dyed. 



♦Homer and Virgil. 
70 



* jEasa, the Island of Circe. 

+ Tlie viper was the armoria? device of the yise9iiti> 
tyrants of Milan 



554 



PERC\^ BYSSHE SHELLEY 



The Anarchs of the Norih lead forth their legions 

Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating; 
A hundred tribes nourish' d on strange religions 
And lawless slaveries, — down the aerial regions 
Of the white Alps, desolating, 
Famish' d wolves that bide no waiting, 
Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, 
Trampling our column'd cities into dust, 

Their dull and savage lust 
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiating — 
They come ! The fields they tread look black 

and hoary 

With fire — from their red feet the streams run 
gory ! 

EPODE U. /3. 

Great Spirit, deepest Love ! 
^hich rulest and dost move 
All things which hve and are, within the ItaUan 
shore ; 
Who spreadest heaven around it. 
Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it; 
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western 
floor. 
Spirit of beauty ! at whose soft command 
The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison 
From the Earth's bosom chill ; 
O bid those beams be each a blinding brand 
Of lightning ! bid those showers be dews of 
poison ! 
Bid the Earth's plenty kill ! 
Bid thy bright Heaven above. 
Whilst light and darkness bound it, 
Be their tomb who plann'd 
To make it ours and thine ! 
Or, with thine harmonizing ardours fill 
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon 
Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire- 
Be man's high hope and unextinct desire 
The instrument to work thy will divine ! 
Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leo- 
pards. 
And frowns and fears from Thee, 
Would not more swiftly flee 
Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shep- 
herds. — 
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine 
Thou yieldest or withholdest. Oh let be 
This city of thy worship ever free ! 
September, 1820. 



THE CLOUD. 

I BRIN& fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
bear fight shades for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 



I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or streaoii 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smifet 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my saihng rack. 

When the morning-star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle aht one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath. 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang hke a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my 
chair. 

Is the million-colour'd bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing beloWi 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



555 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nurshng of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain, 

The pavihon of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
the tomb, . 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is 
overflow' d. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the hght of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, = 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 



Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her 
bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it 
from the view : 

Like a rose embower'd 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflower' d, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth 



Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine ; 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Match' d with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden 
want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 
pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 
stream ? 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 



556 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come 
near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
■ From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening 
now. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats, though unseen, among us ; visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower ; 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain 
shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and harmonies 6f evening, 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty ! that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou 
gone ? 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, 

This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river ; 

Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
shown ; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, why man has such a scope 

For love and hate, despondeilcy and hope ? 

No voice from some subhmer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given : 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and 
Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavour : 
Frail spells, whose utter' d charm might not avail 
to sever. 
From all we hear and all we see. 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven, 
Or music by the night-wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth. to life's unquiet dream. 



Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent. 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his 
heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ; 
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came ; 
Depart not, lest the grave should be, 
Like hfe and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a listening chamber, cave and 

ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead : 
I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth 
is fed : 
I was not heard : I saw them not. 
When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming. 
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me : 
I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy ! 

I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine : have I not kept the vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even 
now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have in 
vision' d bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatch'd with me the envious night : 
They know that never joy illumined my brow, 
Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst free 
This world from its dark slavery. 
That thou, O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot 
express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past : there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard or seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my pensive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 

Its calm, to one who worships thee. 
And every form containing thee. 

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human-kind. 



MONT BLANC. 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNT. 
I. 

The everlasting universe of things 
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, 
Now dark — now glittering ^ — now reflecting 
gloom — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



557 



Now lending splendour, where from secret springs 
The source of human thought its tribute brings 
Of waters, — with a sound but half its own, 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone. 
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, 
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast 

river 
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 

IL 

Thus thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ravine — 
Thou many-colour'd, many-voiced vale. 
Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail 
Fast clouds, shadows, and sunbeams : awful 

scene. 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes 

down 
From the ice -gulfs that gird his secret throne. 
Bursting through these dark mountains, hke the 

flame 
Of hghtning through the tempest; thou dost lie, 
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging. 
Children of elder time, in whose devotion 
The chainless winds still come and ever came 
To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging 
To hear — an old and solemn harmony : 
Thine earthly rainbows stretch'd across the sweep 
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image ; the strange 

sleep 
Which, when the voices of the desert fail, 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; — 
Thy caverns, echoing to the Arve's commotion 
A loud lone sound, no other sound can tame : 
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, 
Thou art the path of that unresting sound — 
Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on thee 
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
To muse on my own separate phantasy, 
My own, my human mind, which passively 
Now renders and receives fast influencings, 
Holding an unremitting interchange 
With the clear universe of things around ; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering 

wings 
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest 
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest. 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
Seeking among the shadows that pass by, 
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, 
Some phantom, some faint image ; till the breast 
From which they fled recalls them , thou art there ! 

III. 

Some say that gleams of a remoter world 

Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is slumber, 

And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber 

Of those who wake and live. — I look on high ; 

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl' d 

The veil of life and death ? or do I lie 

In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep 

Spread far around and inaccessibly 

Its circles ? For the very spirit fails, 

Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep 

That vanishes among the viewless gales I 

Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 

Mont Blanc appears, — still, snowy, and serene — 



Its subject mountains their unearthly forms 

Pile around it, ice and rock ; broad vales between 

Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, 

Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 

And wind among the accumulated steeps ; 

A desert peopled by the storms alone, 

Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, 

And the wolf tracks her there — how hideously 

Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and 

high. 
Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven. — Is this the scene 
Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her 

young 
Ruin ? Were these their toys ? or did a sea 
Of fare envelope once this silent snow? 
None can reply — all seems eternal now. 
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, 
So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
But for such faith with nature reconciled : 
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal 
Large codes of fraud and woe ; not understood 
By all, but which the wise, and g'-pat, and good 
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 

IV. 

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, 
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 
Within the dssdal earth ; lightning, and rain, 
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, 
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams 
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 
Holds every future leaf and flower ; — the bound 
With which from that' detested trance they leap ; 
The works and ways of man, their death and 

birth. 
And that of him and all that his may be ; 
All things that move and breathe with toil and 

sound 
Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell. 
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity. 
Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 
And this, the naked countenance of earth, 
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains, 
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep. 
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far 

fountains, 
Slow rolling on ; there, many a precipice 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power 
Have piled — dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, 
A city of death, distinct with many a tower 
And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky 
Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines are strewihg 
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil 
Branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn 

down 
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 
The limits of the dead and living world, 
Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place 
Of insects, beasts, and birds becomes its spoil ; 
Their food and their retreat for ever gone. 
So much of fife and joy is lost. The race 
Of man flies far in dread ; his work and dwelling 
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, 
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves 
Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam. 



558 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 



Which, from those secret chasms in tumult 

welling, 
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, 
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever 
Rolls its loud vs^aters to the ocean waves, 
Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. 

V. 

Mont Blanc yet gleams on high :— the power is 

there. 
The still and solemn power of many sights 
And many sounds, and much of life and death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, 
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds them there, 
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun. 
Or the star-beams dart through them : — Winds 

contend 
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of things 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite 

dome 
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and 

sea. 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 
Switzerland, June 23, 1816. 



THE FUGITIVES. 

I. 

The waters are flashing, 
The white hail is dashing. 
The lightnings are glancing, 
The hoar-spray is dancuig— 
Away! 

The whirlwind is rolling, 
The thunder is tolling. 
The forest is swinging, 
The minster-bells ringing- 
Come away ! 

The Earth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion: 
Bird, beast, man and worm 
Have crept out of the storm- 
Come away ! 

n. 

" Our boat has one sail, 
And the helmsman is pale ; — 
A bold pilot I trow. 
Who should follow us now,"— 
Shouted He— 

And she cried : " Ply the oar ! 
Put off gaily from shore !" — 
As she spoke, bolts of death 
Mix'd with hail speck'd their path 
O'er the sea. 



And from isle, tower and rock, 
The blue beacon cloud broke, 
And though dumb in the blast. 
The red cannon flash' d fast 
From the lee. 

III. 

" And fear' St thou, and fear'st thout 
And see' St thou, and hear'st thou? 
And drive we not free 
O'er the terrible sea, 
I and thou?" 

One boat- cloak did cover 
The loved and the lover — 
Their blood beats one measure. 
They murmur proud pleasure 
Soft and low ; — 

While around the lash'd Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion, 
Is withdrawn and uplifted, 
Sunk, shatter' d and shifted, 
To and fro. 

IV. 

In the court of the fortress, 
Beside the pale portress. 
Like a blood-hound well beateni 
The bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame ; 

On the topmost watch-turret, 
As a death-boding spirit. 
Stands the gray tyrant father. 
To his voice the mad weather 
Seems tame ; 

And with curses as wild 
As ere clung to child. 
He devotes to the blast 
The best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name ! 



A LAMENT. 



Swifter far than summer's flight. 
Swifter far than youth's delight. 
Swifter far than happy night. 

Art thou come and gone : 
As the earth when leaves are dead, 
As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left lone, alone. 

The swallow Summer comes again, 
The owlet Night resumes her reign, 
But the wild swan Youth is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou. 
My heart each day desires the morrow, 
Sleep itself is turn'd to sorrow. 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

Lilies for a bridal bed, 
Roses for a matron's head, 
Violets for a maiden dead, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



559 



Pansies let my flowers be : 
On the living grave I bear, 
Scatter them without a tear, 
Let no friend, however dear, 

Waste one hope, one fear, for me. 



THE PINE FOREST OF THE 
CASCINE, 

NEAR PISA. 

Dearest, best and brightest. 

Come away, 
To the woods and to the fields ! 
Dearer than this fairest day. 
Which like thee to those in sorrow, 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 
In its cradle in the brake. 

The eldest of the hours of spring, 
Into the winter wandering, 
Looks upon the leafless wood ; 
And the banks all bare and rude 
Found it seems this halcyon morn, 
In February's bosom born. 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
Kiss'd the cold forehead of the earth. 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free ; 
And waked to music all the fountains. 
And breathed upon the rigid mountains. 
And made the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains. 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all the roof of leaves ; 
Where the Pine its garland weaves, 
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun. 
Round stones that never kiss the sun ; 
To the sand-hills of the sea, 
Where the earliest violets be. 

Now the last day of many days. 
All beautiful and bright as thou. 
The loveliest and the last, is dead, 
Rise Memory, and write its praise. 
And do thy wonted work, and trace 
The epitaph of glory fled : 
For the Earth hath changed its face, 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 

We wander' d to the Pine Forest 

That skirts the Ocean's foam, 
The lightest wind was in its nest. 

The tempest in its home. 

The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the v/oods, and on the deep. 

The smile of Heaven lay. 



It seem'd as if the day were one 

Sent from beyond the skies. 
Which shed to earth above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 

We paused amid the Pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude. 

With stems like serpents interlaced. 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 

By such a chain was bound. 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 

The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew. 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 

It seem'd that from the remotest seat 
Of the white mountain's waste, 

To the bright flower beneath our feet, 
A magic circle traced ; — 

A spirit interfused around, 

A thinking silent life. 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal Nature's strife.— 

For still it seem'd the centre of 

The magic circle there, 
Was one whose being fill'd with love 

The breathless atmosphere. 

Were not the crocuses that grew 

Under that ilex-tree. 
As beautiful in scent and hue 

As ever fed the bee ? 

We stood beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough. 
And each seem'd like a sky 

Gulf'd in a world below; — 

A purple firmament of light. 

Which in the dark earth lay. 
More boundless than the depth of night, 

And clearer than the day — 

In which the massy forests grew. 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any waving there. 

Like one beloved, the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament, 

With that clear truth express'd. 

There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn, 
And, through the dark-green crowd, 

The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
Under a speckled cloud. 

Sweet views, which in our world above 

Can never well be seen. 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 



m9 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



And all was interfused beneath 

Within an Elysium air, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A silence sleeping there. 

Until a wandering wind crept by, 
Liiie an unwelcome thought, 

Which from my mind's too faithful eye 
Blots thy bright image out. 

For thou art good and dear and kind, 

The forest ever green, 
But less of peace in S 's mind, 

Than calm in waters seen, 
February 2, 1822. 



TO NIGHT. 



Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou woyest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear,^ 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thy hair the eyes of day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest. 
Lingering like an unloved guest. 

I sigh'd for thee. 



Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd hke a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, 

No, not thee I 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay, 

Tempts and then flies : 
What is this world's delight? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship too rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day ; 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou — and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep. 



JOHN KEATS. 



John Keats, one of the most poetical of Poets, 
and therefore by nature one of the most refined of 
men, was of the humblest origin, having been 
born, October the 29th, 1796, at a livery-stable 
in Moorfields, which belonged to his family. He 
received the rudiments of a classical education at 
the school of Mr. Clarke, at Enfield, where, in 
the person of the master's son, Mr. Charles 
Cowden Clarke, the editor of the '"Riches of 
Chaucer," he had the luck of finding a friend 
possessed of discernment enough to see his genius, 
and warm-heartedness to encourage it. He was 
afterwards apprenticed to a surgeon and apothe- 
cary ; but inheriting a small independence (which, 
nowever, he used in the most generous manner,) 
he did not stop long with him, but devoted him- 
self entirely to poetry. Mr. Clarke introduced 
him to Mr. Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
through the medium of the " Examiner," to the 
public, — which introduction, while it procured 
instant recognition of his genius, attracted to- 
v/ards him, in consequence of tire party-politics 
then raging, the hostility of the critics on the 
opposite side, who paid him the unhappy compli- 
ment of being unusually bitter and ungenerous. 
The result was, not his death, as some have sup- 
posed, — but undoubtedly an embitterment of the 
causes which were then leading to it, and which 
originated in a consumptive tendency. Mr. Keats 
left England in the year 1820, to try the warmer 
climate of Italy, and, on the 24th of February, in 
the year following, died at Rome in the arms of 
his friend, Mr. Severn, the artist, who had accom- 
panied him on the voyage, and who attended his 
bedside like a brother. Mr. Shelley, who loved 
him, and who enthusiastically admired his genius 
(as he has evinced in the beautiful elegy, entitled 
" Adonais,") invited him to come and take up his 
abode with himself; and he would have done so, 
had Ufe been spared him. But fate had disposed 
otherwise ; and the ashes of his inviter, no great 
while afterwards, went to take up their own 
abode in the same burial-ground. His death was 
embittered by a passion he had for a young lady, 
who returned his affection ; but, amidst all his 
suiTerings, his love of poetical beauty did not 
forsake him. He said, in anticipation of his grave, 
that he already "felt the daisies growing over 
him." He requested, however, in the anguish of 
disappointed hope, that his friends would inscribe 
upon his tomb, " Here hes one whose name was 
writ in water ;" and they did so. 

71 



Mr. Keats was under the middle size, and some- 
what large above, in proportion to his lower 
Umbs, — which, however, were neatly formed ; 
and he had any thing in his dress and general 
demeanour but that appearance of "laxity," 
which has been strangely attributed to him in a 
late publication. In fact, he had so much of the 
re%^erse, though in no unbecoming degree, that he 
might be supposed to maintain a certain jealous 
care of the appearance and bearing of a gentleman, 
in the consciousness of his genius, and perhaps 
not without some sense of his origin. His face 
was handsome and sensitive, with a look in the 
eyes at once earnest and tender ; and his hair grew 
indelicate brown ringlets, of remarkable beauty. 

Mr. Keats may truly be pronounced a Poet of 
the most poetical order, for he gave himself up 
entirely to the beautiful, and had powers of ex- 
pression equal to an excess of sensibility. His 
earlier poems, especially the "Endymion," are 
like a luxuriant wilderness of flowers and weeds 
("weeds of glorious feature;") his latest, the 
" Hyperion," was a growing wood of oaks, from 
which the deepest oracles of the art might have 
been looked for. Indeed, there they were, as far 
as he gave his thoughts utterance. It has been 
justly said, that he is "the greatest young Poet 
that ever appeared in the language;" that is to 
say, the greatest that did not live to be old, and 
whose whole memory will be identified with some- 
thing both young and great. His lyrics (the Odes 
to the Nightingale and the Grecian Vase) are 
equal to the very finest we possess, both for 
subtile feeling and music. His "Eve of St. 
Agnes," is as full of beauty as the famous painted 
window he describes in it ; and there was such a 
profusion in him of fancies and imaginations, 
analogous to the beautiful forms of the genius of 
the ancient Poets, that a university-man expressed 
his astonishment at hearing he was not a Greek 
scholar. Of our lately deceased Poets, if you 
want imaginative satire, or bitter wailing, you 
must go to the writings of Lord Byron ; if a. 
thoughtful, dulcet, and wild dreaminess, you 
must go to Coleridge ; if a starthng appeal to the 
first elements of your nature and sympathies 
(most musical also,) to Shelley ; if a thorough 
enjoyment of the beautiful — for beauty's sake — 
like a walk on a summer's noon in a land of 
woods and meadows, you must embower yourself 
in the luxuries of Keats. 

(561) 



562 



JOHN KEATS 



LAMIA. 



PART I. 

Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous 

woods, 
Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, 
-Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowsHp'd 

lawns, 
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : 
From high Olympus had he stolen light. 
On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 
Of his great summoner, and made retreat 
Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 
At whose white feet the languid Tritons pour'd 
Pearls, while on land they wither' d and adored. 
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was 

wont. 
And in those meads where sometimes she might 

haunt. 
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 
Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,' 
That from a whiteness, as the hly clear, 
Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair. 
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 
From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, 
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, 
And wound with many a river to its head, 
To find where this sweet nymph prepared her 

secret bed : 
Jn vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be 

found. 
And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice. 
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 
All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake : 
"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake? 
When move in a sweet body fit for life, 
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 
Of hearts and lips? Ah, miserable me !" 
The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed. 
Until he found a palpitating snake. 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue. 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson-barr'd ; 
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed. 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, touch' d with miseries. 



She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, 
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fir« 
Sprinkled with stars, hke Ariadne's tiar: 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 
She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls 

complete : 
And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair? 
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
Came, as though bubbling honey, for Love's 

sake. 
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
Like a stoop' d falcon ere he takes his prey : 

" Fair Hermes! crown'd with feathers, flutter- 
ing light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old. 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute-finger'd Muses -chanting clear, 
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodi- 
ous moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, 
Break amorous through the clouds, as morning 

breaks. 
And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, 
Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art !■ 
Too gentle Hermes, has thou found the maid?" 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
"Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high iti- 

spired ! 
Thou beauteous wreath with melancholy eyes, 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
Where she doth breathe !" " Bright planet, thou 

hast said," 
Return'd the snake, "but seal with oaths, fair 

God!" 
"I swear," said Hermee, " by my serpent rod. 
And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown !" 
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms 

blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
" Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, 
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 
Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet : 
From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green, 
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen: 
And by my power is her beauty veil'd 
To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd 
By the love-glances of unlovely eyes. 
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 
Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou, alone, 
If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon !'* 
Then, once again, the charmed God began 



LAMIA. 



563 



An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
Ravish'd she hfted her Circean head, 
Blush'd a Uve damask, and swift-lisping said, 
" I was a woman, let me have once more 
A woman's shape, and charming as before. 
I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 
Give me my woman's form, and place me where 

he is. 
Stoop, Hermes, let me breath upon thy brow. 
And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." 
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, 
She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen 
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the 

green. 
it-was no dream ; or say a dream it was, 
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might 

seem 
Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he 

burn'd ; 
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 
To the swoon' d serpent, and with languid arm, 
Delicate, put to proof the Hthe Caducean charm. 
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 
Full of adoring tears and blandishment, 
And towards her stept : she, like a moon m 

wane. 
Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain 
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 
That faints into itself at evening hour : 
But the God fostering her chilled hand, 
She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland 
And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 
Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 
Into the green-recessed woods they flew ; 
Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 

Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran. 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith be- 
sprent, 
Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear. 
Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, 
Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one 

cooling tear. 
The colours all inflamed throughout her train. 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : 
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and 

bars. 
Eclipsed her crescents, and Hck'd up her stars : 
So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst. 
And rubious- argent; of all these bereft, 
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
Still shone her crown ; that vanish' d, also she 
Melted and disappear' d as suddenly ; 
And in the air, her new voice luting soft, 
Cried, "Lycius! gentle Lycius !" — Borne aloft 
With the bright mists about the mountains hoar, 
These words dissolved: Crete's forests heard no 



Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ?• 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Chenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the PeraJan rills, 
And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, 
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
While her robes flaunted with the daffodils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flower' d lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
A virgin purest hpp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learn'd to the red heart's core: 
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ; 
Define their pettish Hmits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ; 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to finger, we shall see ; 
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent. 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids 

fair 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair; 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, 
Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine; 
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
He would return that way, as well she knew, 
To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew 
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow 
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
Fresh anchor' d ; whither he had been awhile 
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
Waits with high marble doors for blood and 

incense rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; 
For by some freakful chance he made retire 
From his companions, and set forth to walk, 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk: 
Over the solitary hills he fared. 
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appear'd 



564 



JOHN KEATS. 



His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 

In the ca-lm'd twUight of Platonic shades. 

Latnia beheld him coming, near, more near — 

Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 

His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 

So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen 

She stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries, 

His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes 

Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white 

Turn'd — syllabling thus, "Ah, Lycius bright ! 

And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 

Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown." 

He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly. 

But Orpheus-hke at an Eurydice ; 

For so delicious were the words she sung 

It seem'd he had loved them a whole summer 

long: 
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 
Leading no drop in the bewildering cup. 
And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 
Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid 
Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so 

sure : 
"Jueave thee alone ! Look back I Ah, Goddess, 

see 
Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
For pity do not this sad heart behe — 
Evea as thou vanishest so I shall die. 
Stay I though a Naiad of tlie rivers, stay ! 
To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 
Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 
Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 
Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine? 
So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
Can":e thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade 
Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 
For pity do not melt !"— " If I should stay," 
Said Lamia, "here, upon this floor of clay, 
And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough. 
What canst thou' say or do of charm enough 
To dull the nice remembrance of my home? 
Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 
Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 
Empty of immortahty and bliss ! 
Thou art- a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
That finer spirits cannot breathe below 
In human climes, and live : Alas ! poor youth, 
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
My essence ? • What -serener palaces. 
Where I may all my many senses please, 
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts ap- 
pease ? 
It cannot be — Adieu !" So said, she rose 
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 
The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 
Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity, 
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
And as he from one trance was wakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing. 



A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in tlieii 

panting fires. 
And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone. 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguish'd days, 
Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 
Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same 

pains 
Inhabited her fi-ail-strung heart as his. 
And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. 
She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 
Days -happy as the gold coin could invent 
Without the aid of love ; yet in content 
Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd 
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 
Late on that, eve, as 'twas the night before 
The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more. 
But wept alone those days, for why should she 

adore ? 
Lycius from death awoke into amaze. 
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 
Then from amaze into delight he fell 
To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; 
And every word she spake enticed him on 
To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
There is not such a treat among them all, 
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,. 
As a real woman, lineal indeed 
From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
Thus gentle Lamia .judged, and judged aright, 
That Lycius could not love in half a fright, 
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
More pleasantly by playing woman's part. 
With no more awe than what her beauty gave, 
That, while it smote, still guarantied to save. 
Lycius to all made eloquent reply. 
Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh ; 
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, 
If ' twas too far that night for her soft feet. 
The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised 
They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how, 
So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 
Throughout her palaces imperial, 
And all her populous streets and temples lewa, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd. 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours, 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, 
Companion'd or alone; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals, 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls. 
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade 
Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colon- 
nade. 



LAMIA, 



565 



Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear, 
Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth 

bald crown, 
Slow stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown: 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past. 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste. 
While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he, 
" Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 
Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ?" — 
"I'm wearied," said fair Lamia : " tell me who 
Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
His features : Lycius ! wherefore did you blind 
Yourself from his quick eyes ?" Lycius rephed, 
" Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide 
And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." 

While yet he spake they had arrived before 
A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 
Reflected in the slabbed steps below, 
Mild as a star in water; for so new. 
And so unsullied was the marble hue. 
So through the crystal poHsh, liquid fine. 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds ^olian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 
Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown 
Some time to any, but those two alone. 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 
Were seen about the markets : none knew where 
They could inhabit ; the most curiousv 
Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their 

house : 
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell. 
For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell, 
'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus, 
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 



PART II. 



Love in a hut, with water and a crust. 

Is — Jjove, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 

That is a doubtful tale from fairy-lnnd, 

Hard for the non-elect to understand. 

Had Lycius lived to hand his story down. 

He might have given the moral a fresh frown. 

Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bhss 

To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft 

voice hiss. 
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, 
Above the lintel of their chamber-door. 
And down the passage cast a glow upon the 

floor. 

For all this came a ruin : side by side 
They were enthroned, in the eventide, 
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
Whose airy texture, from a golden string, 
Floated into the room, and let appear 
Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear. 



Betwixt two marble shafts: — there they reposed. 
Where use had made it sweet, with eyeMds closed. 
Saving a tythe which love still open kept. 
That they might see each other while they almost 

slept ; 
When from the slope side of a suburb hill. 
Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled^, 
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
For the first time, since first he harbour'd in 
That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, 
His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, 
Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
Of something more, more than her empery 
Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
That but a moment's thought is passion's passing- 
bell. 
" Why do you sigh, fair creature ?" whisper'd he i 
" Why do you think ?" return'd she tenderly : 
" You have deserted me; where am I now ? 
Not in your heart while care weighs on youx 

brow : 
No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and I go 
From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so.'*' 
He answer'd, bending to her open eyes. 
Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, — 
"_My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 
Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 
While I am striving how to fill my heart 
With deeper crimson, and a double smart? 
How to entangle, trammel up and snare 
Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there, 
Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 
Ay, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 
My thoughts I shall I unveil them ? Listen then i 
What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
May 'be confounded and abash'd withal, 
But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical. 
And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 
Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 
Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, 
While through the thronged streets your bridal 

car 
Wheels round its dazzling spokes." — The lady's 

cheek 
Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and 

meek, 
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain 
Beseeching him, the while his iiand she wrung. 
To change his purpose. He thereat was stung. 
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 
Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 
Besides, for all his love, in self-despite, 
Against his better self, he took delight 
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new 
His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 
Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 
In one whose brow had no dark veins to sweU. 
Fine was the mitigated fury, like 
Apollo's presence when in act to strike 
The serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she 
Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, 
And, all-subdued, consented to the hour 
When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 



566 



JOHN KEATS 



Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 
" Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by 

my truth, 
I have not ask'd it, ever thinldng thee 
Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth. 
To share our marriage -feast and nuptial mirth?" 
"I have no friends," said Lamia, "no, not one ; 
My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns. 
Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests : 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid." 
Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank, 
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank. 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song. 
With other pageants ; but this fair unknown 
Had not a friend. So being left alone 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin,) 
And knowing surely she could never win 
His foolish heart from its mad pompousness, 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the doors. 
There was a noise of wings, till in short space 
The glowing banquet-room shone with wide- 
arched grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the fairy-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might 

fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side. 
High in the midst, in honour of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 
From either side their stems branch' d one to one 
All down the aisled palace ; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall 

to wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest. 
Silently paced about, and as she went. 
In pale contented sort of discontent. 
Missioned her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendour of each nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, 
Came jasper panels; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 
And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still. 
Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
When dreaded guests would come to spoil her 
solitude. 



The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. 
senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours, 
And show to common eyes those secret bowers ? 
The herd approach'd; each guest, with busy 

brain. 
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain. 
And enter' d marvelling : for they knew the street, 
Remember'd it frona childhood all complete 
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : 
Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe. 
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere ; 
'Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh'd, 
As though some knotty problem, that had daft 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, 
And solve and melt : 'twas just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. " 'Tis no common rule, 
Lycius," said he, " for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong, 
And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led 
The old man through the inner doors broad 

spread ; 
With reconciling words and courteous mien 
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume: 
Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood. 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft. 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 
To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose 
Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorousv 
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered. 
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came froiji the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
Thus loaded with a feast, the tables stood, 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 

When in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, 
By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet, 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth 
could spring. 

Soft went the music that soft air along, 
While fluent Greek a vowell'd under-song 
Kept up among the guests discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; 
But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains,' 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, 
The space, the splendour of the draperies. 



LAMIA. 



5m 



The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 
And every soul from human trammels freed, 
No more so strange : for merry wine, sweet wine, 
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; 
Flush' d were their cheeks, and bright eyes double 

bright : 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 
From vales deflower'd, or forest trees, branch- 
rent, 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought 
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
Of every guest ; that each, as he did please, 
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 

What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 
What for the sage, old ApoUonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage, 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings. 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-person' d Lamia melt into a shade. 

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face, 
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took 
FuU-brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance. 
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. 
Browbeating her fair form, and troubUng her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch, 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
" Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou 

start ? 
Know'st thou that man ?" Poor Lamia answer'd 

not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
More, more he gazed : his human senses reel : 
Some angry spell that lovehness absorbs ; 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 
'■ Lamia !" he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure 

ceased ; 
A deadly silence step by step increased, 



Until it seem'd a horrid presence there, 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
"Lamia!" he shriek'd: and nothing but the 

shriek 
Wiih its sad echo did the silence break. 
" Begone, foul dream !" he cried, gazing again 
In the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illumiC 
The deep-recessed vision: — all was blight; 
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 
" Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless 

man ! 
Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous ban 
Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 
Here represent their shadowy presences. 
May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 
Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn, 
In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 
Of conscience, for their long-offended might, 
For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries, 
Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 
Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch ! 
Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch 
Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see! 
My sweet bride withers at their potency." 
"Fool !" said the sophist, in an under- tone 
Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 
From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost, 
He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 
" Fool ! Fool !" repeated he, while his eyes still 
Relented not, nor moved ; " from every ill 
Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 
And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey ?" 
Then Lamia breathed death-breath ; the sophist's 

eye. 
Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 
Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well 
As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
Motion'd hiin to be silent ; vainly so, 
He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
" A Serpent !" echoed he; no sooner said. 
Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 
As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 
On the high couch he lay I — his friends came 

round — 
Supported him — no pulse, or breath they found, 
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.* 



* " Philostratus, in his fourth book de Vila Apollonii, 
hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may 
not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young man 
twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas 
and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair 
gentlewoman, which taking him by the hand, carried 
him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and 
told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would 
tarry with her, he should hear her sing and play, and 
drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should 
molest him ; but she, being fair and lovely, would die 
with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. The 
young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, 
able to moderate his passions, though not this of love, 
tarried with her a while to his great content, and at 
last married her, to whose wedding, amongst other 
guests, came ApoUonius ; who, by some probable con- 
jectures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia; and 
that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, de- 
scribed by Homer, no substance but mere illusions 



568 



JOHN KEATS. 



ISABELLA, 
OR THE POT OF BASIL; 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 



F^iR Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

II. 

With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 

He might not in house, field, or garden stir. 
But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 

And his continual voice was pleasanter 
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

III. 

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 

And from her chamber-window he would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch. 
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies; 

And with sick longing all the night outwear. 

To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 

IV. 
A whole long month of May in this sad plight 

Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : 
" To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." — 
" O may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." — 
So spake they'to their pillows; but, alas, 
Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 



Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 

"How ill she is," said he, " I may not speak. 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 

And at the least will startle off her cares." 



VI. 

So said he one fair morning, and all day 
His heart beat awfully against his side ; 

And to his heart he inwardly did pray 
For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 

Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 
Fever' d his high conceit of such a bride. 

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : 

Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! 

VII. 

So once more he had waked and anguished 

A dreary night of love and misery, 
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
She saw it waxing very pale and dead. 

And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly, 
"Lorenzo !" — here she ceased her timid quest, 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

VIII. 

' ' O Isabella ! I can half perceive 
Tliat I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 

If thou didst ever any thing believe, 

Believe how I love thee, believe how near 

My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not 
fear 

Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live 

Another night, and not my passion shrive. 

IX. 

" Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold, 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime, 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 
In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time," 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold. 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty ilower in June's caress. 

X. 

Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air. 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each othe-r's heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of dehcious love and honey'd dart; 

He with light steps went up a western hill. 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 

XI. 

All close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 



When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired 
Apollonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, 
and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, 
vanished in an instant : many thousands took notice of 
this fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece."— 
Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part 3, Sect. 2, Merab 
I., Subs. I. 



XII. 
Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 

Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 
Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 

Too much of pity after they are dead, 



ISABELLA. 



569 



Too many doleful stories do we see, 

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 
Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 
Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 

XIIL 
But, for the general award of love, 

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 
Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 

And Isabella's was a great distress. 
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 

Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — 
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers. 
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 

XIV. 

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 
Enriched from ancestral merchandise, 

And for them many a weary hand did swell 
In torched mines and noisy factories. 

And many once proud-quiver' d loins did melt 
In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 

Many all day in dazzling river stood. 

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 

XV. 

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 
And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 

For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death 
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 

Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark : 

Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel, 

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 

XVI. 

Why were they proud? Because their marble 
founts 
Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's 
tears? — 
Why were they proud? Because fair orange- 
mounts 
Were of more soft ascent than lazar-stairs ? 
Why were they proud ? Because red-Hned accounts 
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? 
Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud. 
Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? 

XVII. 

Yet were these Florenthies as self-retired 
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired. 
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; 

The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 
And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away,— 

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

xvni. 

How was it these same leger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east and 
west ? — 



Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 

XIX. 

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow. 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon. 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 

XX. 

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 

There is no other crime, no mad assail 
To make old prose in modern rhyme more 
sweet : 

But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 

To stead thee as a verse in EngUsh tongue, 

An echo of thee in the north- wind sung. 

XXI. 

These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had. 

And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad 

That he, the servant of their trade designs. 
Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, 

When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And many a jealous conference had they, 
And many times they bit their lips alone. 

Before they fix'd upon a surest way 

To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ; 

For they resolved in some forest dim 

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII. 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
Into the sunrise o'er the balustrade 

Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 
Their footing through the dews ; and to him 
said, 

" You seem there in the quiet of content, 
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 

Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 

Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 

XXIV. 

" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine.'.' 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 

And went in haste, to get in readiness, 

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 



570 



JOHN KEATS. 



XXV. 

And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
Each third step did he pause, and Usten'd oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song, 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung, 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; 

When, looking up, he saw her features bright 

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 

XXVI. 

" Love, Isabel !" said he, "I was in pain 
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good-morrow : 

Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 
I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 

Of a poor three hour's absence? but we'll gain 
Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow, 

Good-bye! I'll soon be back." — "Good-bye!" 
said she : 

And as he went she chanted merrily. 

XXVII. 

So the two brothers and their murder'd man 
Rode pastfair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 

Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the 
water 

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 

There in that forest did his great love cease ; 

Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, 
It aches in lonehness — is ill at peace 

As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin: 
They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did 
tease 

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur. 

Each richer by his being a murderer. 

XXIX. 

They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, 

Because of some great urgency and need 
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 

Poor girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 
And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed 
bands ; 

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 

And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 

XXX. 

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misery ! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see. 

And to the silence made a gentle moan. 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
And on her couch low murmuring, " Where ? 
where ?" 



XXXI. 

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 

Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 

Upon the time with feverish unrest — • 
Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 

Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 
Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, 
And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

xxx:ii. 

In the mid-days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 

Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay - 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 

XXXIII. 

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale, 

Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 

Could keep him oflTso long ? They spake a tale 

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 
Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's 
vale ; 

And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 

To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 

XXXIV. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, 
Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall 

For some few gasping moments; like a lance, 
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again , 

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 

XXXV. 

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 

Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could 
shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. 

XXXVL 

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow 
spake ; 

For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 
To speak as when on earth it was awake. 

And Isabella on its music hung: 
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 

As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung; 
And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song, 
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briers among. 

XXXVH. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 



ISABELLA. 



671 



From the poor girl by magic of their hght, 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell. 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet! 

Red whortle-berries droop above my head, 
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 

Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 
And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 

XXXIX. 

" I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 

Upon the skirts of human-nature dweUing 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 

While Uitle sounds of life are round me knelling, 
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, 

And many a chapel-bell the hour is teUing, 
Paining me through : those sounds grow strange 

to me, 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 

XL. 

" I know what was, I feel full well what is. 
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss. 

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 

A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 

To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad : 

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

A greater love through all my essence steal." 

XLI. 
The Spirit mourn' d "Adieu!" — dissolved, and 
left 

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft. 

Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil. 
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
And in the d'awn she started up awake ; 

XLII. 
"Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life, 

I thought the worst was simple misery ; 
I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 

Portion' d us — happy days, or else to die ; 
But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! " 

Sweet Spirit, thou hast school' d my infancy : 
I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 
And greet thee morn and even in the skies." 

XLIII. 

When the full morning came, she had devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized. 
And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 

How her short absence might be unsurmised. 
While she the inmost of the dream would try. 

Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, 

And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 



XLIV. 

See, as they creep along the river-side 

How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 
And, after looking round the champaign wide, 
Shows her a knife. — "What feverous hectic 
flame 
Burns in thee, child ? — What good can thee 
betide, 
That thou shouldst smile again?" — The even- 
ing came. 
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
The flint was there, the berries at his head. 

XLV. 

Who hath not loiter' d in a green church-yard, 
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, 
To see skull, cofEn'd bones, and funeral stole; 

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, 
And filling it once more with human soul ? 

Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI. 

She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though 
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 

Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, 
Like to a native lily of the dell : 

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began . 

To dig more fervently than misers can. 

XL VII. 
Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 

Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies; 
She kiss'd it with a Hp more chill than stone, 

And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries : 
Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, 
But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 

XLVIIL 

That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 
Until her heart felt pity to the core 

At sight of such a dismal labouring. 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 
Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore ; 

At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 

And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 

For hear, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — turn thee to the very tale, 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 



With duller steel than the Persean sword 
They cut away no formless monster's head, 



573 



JOHN KEATS, 



But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, 

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead, 

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 

'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not de- 
throned. 

LI. 
In anxious secrecy they took it home, 

And then the prize was all for Isabel : 
She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, 

And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 

With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, 
She drench'd away: — and still she comb'd, and 

kept 
Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept. 

LII. 
Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 

Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 

Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfuUy, — 
She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 

A garden-spot, wherein she laid it by, 
And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 

LIII. 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, 
And she forgot the blue above the trees. 

And she forgot the dells v/here waters run, 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day was done. 
And the new morn she saw not : but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. 

And moisten'd it with tears unto the core- 

LIV. 

And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 

Nature besides, and life, from human fears. 
From the fast-mouldering head there shut from 
view : 

So that the jewel, safely casketed. 

Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 

LV. 

Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, 
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 

LVI. 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
And touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 



Among the dead : she withers, like a palm 
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

LVII. 

O leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour !— 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf. 

Among her kindred, wonder'd that such 
dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 

LVIII. 

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, 

And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might 
mean : 

They could not surely give belief, that such 
A very nothing would have power to wean 

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 

And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore they watch'd a time when they might 
sift 

This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in 
vain ; 
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 

And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 
And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ; 
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

LX. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-p6t, 

And to examine it in secret place : 
The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
The guerdon of their murder they had got, 

And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXI. 
O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way !" 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 
Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; 

And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 

'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said 
she, 

" To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



573 



LXIII. 
And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 

Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the country 
pass'd : 
Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty, 
To steal my Basil-pot away from me !" 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
^^ The hare lirap'd trembling through the frozen 

grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he 

told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer 

he saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 
Then takes his lamp, and risethfrom his knees, 
And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to 

freeze, 
Imprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 



III. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden 

tongue 
Fiatter'd to tears this aged man and poor : 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to 

grieve. 

IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude 

soft; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 



Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise 
on their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new stufPd, in youth, with triumphs 

gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames fully many times 

declare. 

VI. 
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young Virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, hly white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
desire, 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by— she heeded not at all: in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired ; not cool'd by high disdain. 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
year. 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng' d resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy; all amort, 
Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
Buttress' d from moonlight, stands he, and 

implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — ^in sooth 
such things have been. 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell: 
All eyes 6e muffled, or a hundred swords 



574 



JOHN KEATS. 



Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his hneage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

XL 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland: 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp' d his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this 
place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 
■ race ! 

xn. 

" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hil- 

debrand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! fllit ! 
Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, gossip dear, 
We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
And tell me how" — " Good Saints ! not here, 

not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be.thy 

bier." 

xra. 

He follow' d through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume. 
And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day !" 
He found him in a little moonlit room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, Pve mickle time to 



XV. 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those e nchantments cold. 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 

Made purple riot : then doth he propose 

A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 

' ' A cruel man and impious thou art : 

Sweet lady, let her play, and sleep, and dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 

From wicked men like thee. Go, go!— I 

deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didsl 

seem." 

XVIL 
" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 

prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, . 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these teays ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen' s ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd 
than wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 

" Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 

thing. 
Whose passing-bell may, ere the midnight, 

toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening. 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she 

. bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous 
debt. 

XX. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour 

frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare. 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in 

prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady 

wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the 

dead." 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



575 



XXI. 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd> and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and 

chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 

brain. 

XXII. 
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade. 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a mission' d spirit, un^j^re : 
With silver taper's hght, and pious care. 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, Hke ring-dove fray'd 
and fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her 
dell. 

- XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush' d with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on MadeHne's fair breast. 
As down she I'-nelt for heaven's grace and boon : 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
She see:;i'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 
Unclasps her warrned jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 



Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile, she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
Insert of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
BHssfuUy haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp' d hke a missal where swart Paynims 

pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 

again. 

XXVIII. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen' d to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he 

bless, 
And breathed himself: then from the closet 

crept. 
Noiseless as fear m a wide wilderness. 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — hov? 

fast she slept. 

XXIX. 
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
gone. 

XXX. 
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainiies, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI. 
These delicates he heap'd wuh glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
ache." 



576 



JOHN KEATS. 



XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet hes : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans 

mercy ;"^ 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 
dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah, Porphyro !" said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; ' 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art ! how paUid, chill, and 

drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
O leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where 

to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassion' d far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and hke a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution- sweet : meantime the frost- wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 
hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown 

sleet : 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline !" 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is 'mine ! 



Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
Cruel 1 what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
A dove forlorn and lost witli sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVTII. 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 

dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX. 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy-land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise— arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassailei-s will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown' d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for 
thee." 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 

found, — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-dropp'd lamp was flickering by each 

door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and 

hound. 
Flutter' d in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI. 

They gUde, like phantoms, into the wide hall; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his 

hide 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy shde : — 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
groans. 

XLII. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes 
cold . 



HYPERION. 



577 



HYPERION.* 



BOOK I. 

Deep m the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. 

Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there. 

Not so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Press' d her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, 
No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the 

Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him ft-om his 
plasce; 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world : 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
Achilles by the hau' and bent his neck ; 
Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 
Her face was large as that of Mcmphian sphinx, ' 
Pedestall'd haply in a palace-court, 
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh! how unlike marble was that face: 
How beautiful, if Sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self 
There was a listening fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but began ; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just there. 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ-tone : 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 



* If any apology be thought necessary for the appear- 
ance of the unfinished poem of HYrEBioN,the publish- 
ers beg to state that they alone are responsible, as it 
was printed at their particular request, and contrary 
to the wish of the author. The poem was intended to 
have been of equal length with Endymion, but the re- 
ception given to that work discouraged the author from 
proceeding. — JVo/f to Er.g-Hsli edition. 
73 



Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 
To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
"Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor old 

King ? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot say, ' O wherefore sieepest thou?' 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain, 
aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on ; — O thoughtless, why did I 
Thus violate thy slumb'rous sohtude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave : 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alternation slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night, 
And still these two were postured motionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
The frozen God still couchant on the earth, 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
" tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow. 
Naked and bare of its great diadem, 
Peers hke the front of Saturn. Who had power 
To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 
How was it nurtured to such bursting forth, 
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous 

grasp ? . 

But it is so; and I am smother'd up, 
And buried from all godhke exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale. 
Of admonitions to the winds and seas. 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
Away from my own bosom : I have left 
My strong identity, my real self. 



578 



JOHN KEATS, 



Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 
Upon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light: 
Space region'd with life-air: and barren void; 
Spaces of fire, and aU the yawn of hell — 
Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thou seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 
There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets 

blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropohtan, 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children; I will give command: 
Thea! Thea ! where is Saturn?" 

This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
And made his hands to struggle in the air. 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat. 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep; 
A little time, and then again he snatch'd 
Utterance thus: — " But cannot I create? 
Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 
Another world, another universe, 
To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
Where is another chaos ? Where ?" — That word 
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 
The rebel three. Thea was startled up, 
And in her bearing was a sort of hope, 
As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. 

' ' This cheers our fallen house : come to our 
friends 

Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I hither." 
Thus brief ; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space : 
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way 
Through aged houghs, that yielded Hke the mist 
Which eagles cleave, upmounting from their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
More sorrow hke to this, and such like woe, 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more, 
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty ; — 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snufTd the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's Qod ; yet unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shudder' d he — 
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech. 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell. 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp; 
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve, 
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold. 



And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand couitB 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were 

heard, 
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills. 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick : 
And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west, 
After the full completion of fair day,— 
For rest divine upon exalted couch, 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
While far within each aisle and deep recess, 
His winged minions in close clusters stood. 
Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements and 

towers. 
Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance 
Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
In smoothed silence, save what solemn tubes, 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies. 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye. 
That inlet to severe magnificence 
Stood full-blown, for the God to enter in. 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath; 
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heeVfl, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he 

flared, 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 
Through bowers of fragrant and en wreathed hght, 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades, 
Until he reach'd the great main cupola ; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stamp'd his foot, 
And from the basements deep to the high towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased. 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb, 
To this result : " O dreams of day and night ! 
O monstrous forms ! efBgies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 
O lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools! 
Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light, 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
Of all my lucent empire? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
I'he blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry. 



HYPERION, 



57dk 



I cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose. 
The shady visions come to domineer, 
Insuh, and bhnd, and stifle up my pomp — 
Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 
Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
I will advance a terrible right arm 
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 
And bid old Saturn take his throne again." — 
He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat 
Held struggle with his throat, but came not forth; 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush !" 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 
And from the mirror'd level where he stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown, 
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 
From overstrained might. Released, he fled 
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 
Before the dawn in season due should blush, 
He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy 

portals, 
Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens through'. 
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid. 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres. 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling 

dark 
Sweet-shaped hghtnings from the nadir deep 
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with labouring thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries : 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 
Of stone, or marble swart; their import gone. 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this orb 
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings. 
Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes 

immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse. 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 
And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He might not : — No, though a primeval God : 
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 
Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 
Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 
And the bright Titan, frenzied with new woes, 
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 



Of Coelus, from the universal space, 

Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear. 

" brightest of my children dear, earth-born 

And sky-engender'd. Son of Mysteries ! 

All unrevealed even to the powers 

Which met at thy creating ! at whose joys 

And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 

I, CceIus, wonder, how they came and whence ; 

And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 

Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine, 

Manifestations of that beauteous life 

Diffused unseen throughout eternal space ; 

Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child! 

Of these thy brethren and the Goddesses ! 

There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 

Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 

[ saw my first-born tumbled from his throne ! 

To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 

Found way from forth the thunders round his 

head ! 
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there iss 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd. 
Unruffled, Hke high Gods, ye lived and ruled: 
Now I behold in you, fear, hope, and wrath; 
Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O Son ! 
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall! 
Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable, 
As thou canst move about, an evident God; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 
My life is but the life of winds and tides. 
No more than winds and tides can I avail: — 
But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van 
Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth! 
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — 
Eve half this region-whisper had come down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
Lifted his curved fids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide : 
And still they were the same bright, patient stare. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast. 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop' d over the airy shore, 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep night 



BOOK II. 



Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide winge 

Hyperion slid into the rustled air. 

And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place 

Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn' d. 

It was a den where no insulting light 

Could ghmmer on their tears ; where their own 

groans 
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse, 
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 



SfSO 



JOHN KEATS. 



Ever as if just risipg from a sleep, 

Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 

And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 

Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 

Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon. 

Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 

Slubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled: 

Some chain' d in torture, and some wandering. 

Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 

With many more, the brawniest in assault. 

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 

Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep 

Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their 

limbs 
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and 

screw'd ; 
Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 
With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of pulse. 
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 
Far from her moon had PhoBbe wander'd; 
And many else were free to roam abroad, 
But for the main, here found they covert drear. 
Scarce images of life, one here, one there. 
Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor, 
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve, 
In dull November, and their chancel vault, 
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave 
Or word, or look, or action of despair. 
Creiis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 
Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined, 
lapetus another ; in his grasp, 
A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 
Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd 

length 
Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 
Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost. 
As though in pain ; for still upon the flint 
He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 
Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs. 
Though feminine, than any of her sons : 
More thought than woe was in her dusky face, 
For she was prophesying of her glory; 
And in her wide imagination stood 
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, 
By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans, 
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 
Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 
Shadow' d Enceladus ; once tame and mild 
As grazing ox unworried in the meads ; 
Now tiger-passion' d, lion- thoughted, wroth, 
He meditated, plotted, and even now 
Was hurling mountains in that second war, 
Not long delay'd, that scared the younger Gods 
To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 
Not far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd close 
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 



Sobb'd Glymene among her tangled hair. 

In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 

Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 

No shape distinguishable, more than when 

Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the 

clouds : 
And many else whose names may not be told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread, 
Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd 
With damp and slippery footing from a depth 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliffy 
Their heads appear' d, and up their stature grew 
Till on the level height their steps found ease : 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face: 
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 
At war with all the frailty of grief. 
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain ; for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
Affiighted, kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 

As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever' d more. 
When it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst. 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye, 
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 
"Titans, behold your God!" at which some 

groan' d ; 
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
Some wept, some wail'd — all bow'd with rever- 
ence ; 
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan, 
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise 
Among immortals when a God gives sign, 
AVith hushing finger, how he means to load 
His tongue with the full weight of utterless 

thought. 
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp : 
Such noise is hke the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world. 
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here. 
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
Grew up hke organ, that begins anew 
Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short. 
Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad breast, 
Which is its own great judge and searcher out, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
Not in the legends of the first of days. 
Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
Which starry Uranus with finger bright 
Saved from the shores of darkness, when the 

waves 
Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ;■ — 
And the which book ye know I ever kept 



HYPERION 



For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 

Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 

Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 

At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 

One against one, or two, or three, or all 

Each several one against the other three, 

As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 

Drown both, and press them both against earth's 

face. 
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep. 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search, 
And pore on Nature's universal scroll 
Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities, 
The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 
Should cower beneath what, in comparison. 
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are 

here ! 
O Titans, shall I say ' Arise !' — Ye groan : 
Shall I say 'Crouch!' — Ye groan. What can I 

then ? 
O Heaven wide ! unseen parent dear ! 
What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 
How we can war,*ho\v engine our great wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content • 

Which comes of thought and musing : give us 
help ! " 

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades. 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 
In mur.murs, which his first-endeavouring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion- 
stung, 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears. 
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
And in the proof much comfort will I give, 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
But for this reason, that thou art the King 
And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers. 
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be. 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Light, the first-fruits of that intestine broil, 
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came, 
And with it light, and light, engendering 
Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 
The whole enormous matter mto life. 
Upon that very hour, our parentage, 
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest: 



Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, 
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain; 

folly I for to bear all naked truths. 
And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well ! 
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once 

chiefs ; 
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 
In form and shape compact and beautiful, 
In will, in action free, companionship. 
And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
And fated to excel us, as we pass 
In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 
Thereby more conquer'd than by us the rule 
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed. 
And feedeth still, more comely than itself? 
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
Have bred forth, not pale soHtary doves, 
But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 
Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law 
That first in beauty should be first in might: 
Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face ? 
Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 
By noble-winged creatures he hath made? 

1 saw him on the calmed waters scud. 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire : farewell sad I took. 
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm." 

Whether through pozed conviction, or disdain, 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? ■ 
But so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene : 
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" O Father! I am here the simplest voice. 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts. 
There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
So weak a creature could turn off" the help 
Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 
And know that we had parted from all hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and'flowers. 
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 



582 



JOHN KEATS, 



Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 
O melody no more ; for while I sang, 
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea, 



And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 

Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 

let him feel the evil he hath done ; 

For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 

Much pain have I for more than loss of realms ; 

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 

Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 

When all the fair Existences of heaven 

Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : — 

That was before our brows were taught to frown, 



There came enchantment with the shifting wind, , Before our lips knew else but solemn soiinds; 



That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 

I threw my shell away upon the sand, 

And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fiU'd 

With that new bhssful golden melody. 

A living death was in each gush of sounds, 

Each family of rapturous hurried notes. 

That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 

Like pearl beads dropping sudden fronj their ' And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 

Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern: 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all, 



That was before we knew the winged thing, 
Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced— 
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here !" 

All eyes were on Enceladus's face, 



string : 
And then another, then another strain. 
Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 
With music wing'd instead of silent plumes, 
To hover round my head, and make me sick 
Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame. 
And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 
When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, 
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, 
And still it cried, ' Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
The morning-bright Apollo '. young Apollo !' 
I fled, it follow'd me, and cried, ' Apollo !' 
O Father, and O Brethren ! had ye felt 
Those pains of mine ! O Saturn, had'st thou felt. 
Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard !" 

So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast. 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
And shudder'd; for the overwhelming voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd U in wrath: 
The ponderous syllables, hke the sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
" Or shall we listen to the over-wise, 
Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
That rebel Jove's whole armoury were spent, 
Not world on world upon these shoulders piled, 
Could agonize me more than baby-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile? 
Are ye not smitten by a younghng arm ? 
Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 
Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I roused 
Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
O joy ! for now I see you are not lost : 
O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide glaring for revenge !" — As this he said, 
He hfted up his stature vast, and stood, 
Still without intermission speaking thus ; 
" Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how to burn. 
And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire. 



And in each face he saw a gleam of light. 

But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 

Shone like the bubbhng foam about a keel 

When the brow sweeps into a midnight cove. 

In pale and silver silence they remain'd, 

Till suddenly a splendour, hke the morn, 

Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps, 

All the sad spaces of oblivion. 

And every gulf, and every chasm old. 

And every height, and every sullen depth, 

Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams: 

And all the everlasting cataracts. 

And all the headlong torrents far and near. 

Mantled before in darkness and huge shade. 

Now saw the light and made it terrible. 

It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 

His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view 

The misery his brilliance had betray'd 

To the most hateful seeing of itself. 

Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, 

Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 

In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 

Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 

To one who travels from the dusking East : 

Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp; 

He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, 

He press'd together, and in silence stood. 

Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 

At sight of the dejected King of Day, 

And many hid their faces from the light : 

But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 

Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 

To where he towered on his eminence. 

There those four shouted forth old Saturn's 

name ; 
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, "Sa- 
turn !" 
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 
In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 
Gave from their hollow throats the name of 
" Saturn!" 



HYPERION. 



583 



BOOK III. 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to their woes ! 

For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 

A solitary sorrow best befits 

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, O Muse I for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

Wandering in vain about bewilder' d shores. 

Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 

And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 

For lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 

Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue, 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 

And let the clouds of even and of morn 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil. 

Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells, 

On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn 

Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embower' d Cyclades, 

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green, 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, 

And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the 

shade : 
Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 
Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
Together had he left his mother fair 
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower. 
And in the morning twilight wander' d forth 
Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 
Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 
There was no covert, no retired cave 
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves. 
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears 
Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs 

hard by 
With solemn step an awful Goddess came, 
And there was purport in her looks for him, 
Which he with eager guess began to read 
Perplex' d, the while melodiously he said: 
"How camest thou over the unfooted sea? 
Or hath that antique mien and robed form 
Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced 
The rustle of those ample skirts about 
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 
Lift up iheir heads, as still the whisper pass'd. 
Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before. 
And their eternal calm, and all that face. 
Or I have dream'd." — " Yes," said the supreme 

shape, 
" Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking up 
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, 



Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast 
Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange 
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, 

youth. 
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs 
To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life. 
From the young day when first thy infant hand 
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 
Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
Of lovehness new-born." — Apollo then, 
With sudden .scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat 
Throbb'd with the syllables. — " Mnemosyne ! 
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? 
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 
Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark. 
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 
Until a melancholy numbs my'hmbs ; 
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, ^ 
Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 
Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I 
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 
Goddess benign ! point forth some unknown thing : 
Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun! 
And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 
And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 
To any one particular beauteous star. 
And I will flit into it with my lyre. 
And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. 
I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where ispower? 
Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 
Makes this alarm in the elements. 
While I here idle listen on the shores 
In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 
O tell me, lonely Goddess ! by thy harp, 
That waileth every morn and eventide. 
Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! 
Mute thou remainest — Mute ? yet I can read 
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me, 
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, re« 

bellions, 
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
Creations, and destroyings, all at once 
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 
And deify me, as if some blithe wine. 
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk. 
And so become immortal." — Thus the God, 
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept 
Trembling with hght upon Mnemosyne. 
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 
All the immortal fairness of his limbs: 
Most hke the struggle at the gate of death ; 
Or liker still to one who should take leave 
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 



684 



JOHN KEATS. 



Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd ; 
His very hair, his golden tresses famed 
Kept undulation round his eager neck, 
During the pain, Mnemosyne upheld 
Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 
Apollo shriek' d; — and lo ! from all his limbs 
Celestial ****** 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



TO SOME LADIES, 

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. 

What though, while the wonders of nature ex- 
ploring, 

I cannot your hght mazy footsteps attend ; 
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend: 

Yet over the steep, whence the motxntain-stream 
rushes, 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate 
gushes, 
Its spray that the wild-flower kindly bedews. 

Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolUng? 

Why breathless, unable your bhss to declare? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylphs, in the moonbeamy air. 

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet 
drooping, 

I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 
And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 

To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 

ffa cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 
Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of 
Heaven ; 
And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly 
blending, 
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ; 

It had not created a warmer emotion 

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with 
from you ; 
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of 
the ocean. 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly 
threw. 

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure 
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,) 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



IMITATION OF SPENSER. 

***** 
Now Morning from her orient chamber oamc. 
And her first footsteps touch' d a verdant hill : 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, 
Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill ; 



Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, 
And, after parting beds of simple flowers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill, 
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, 
Vying with fish of briUiant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : 
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, 
And oar'd himself along with majesty; 
Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: 
For sure so fair a place was never seen 
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye: 
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high, 
Through clouds of fleecy white, *laughs the ceru- 
ean sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, 
Which, as it were in gentle amity. 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried, 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
Dance, and Proven5al song, and sun-burnt 
mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene. 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world un- 
seen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest 
dim : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



585 



3. 

- Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs, 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 



4. 
Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding 
mossy ways. 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 



6. 
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! — 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in 
" vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

7. 

Thou was not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self- same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening onihe foam 
Of periloxis seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 
74 



Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream 1 
Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep i 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

1. 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? What maidens 
loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasyt 



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not 
grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

3. 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



Who are these commg to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest S 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, Uttle town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



586 



JOHN KEATS 



5. , « 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude 1 with brede 

Of marble nien and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear. 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung. 
Even into thine own soft- couched ear: 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
The winged Psyche with awaken' d eyes ! 

1 wander' d in a forest thoughtlessly, 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there 
ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant- eyed, 

Blue, silver- white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 
Their hps touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love : 

The winged boy I knew ; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

O latest-born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
Fairer than Phcebe's sapphire-region'd star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none. 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

brightest ! though too late for antique vows. 
Too, too late for the fond beheving lyre. 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so far retired 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
Upon the midnight hours ; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth' d prophet dreaming. 



Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new-grown with 
pleasant pain, 
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by 
steep ; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and 
bees. 
The moss-lain Dryads shall be luU'd to sleep ; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain. 
With buds, and bells, and stars without a 
name. 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the 
same : 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at nighti 
To let the warm Love in ! 



FANCY. 



Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thoughts still spread beyond her J 

Open wide the mind's cage-door. 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loos§ ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming ; 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting: What do then? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright. 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the plowboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overaw'd, 

Fancy, high commission'd: send her! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together, • 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest- carols clear ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



%87 



Rustle of the reaped corn ; 


With the whisper of heaven's trees 




Sweet birds antheming the morn : 


And one another, in soft ease 




And, in the same moment — hark ! 


Seated on Elysian lawns 




'Tis the early April lark, 


Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 




Or the rooks, with busy caw, 


Underneath large blue-bells tented, 




Foraging for sticks and straw. 


Where the daisies are rose-scented, 




Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 


And the rose herself has got 




The daisy and the marigold ; 


Perfume which on earth is not; 


• 


White-plumed lilies, and the first 


Where the nightingale doth sing 




Hedge -grown primrose that hath burst ; 


Not a senseless, tranced thing, 




Shaded hyacinth, alway 


But divine melodious truth ; 




Sapphire queen of the mid- May ; 


Philosophic numbers smooth ; 




And every leaf, and every flower 


Pales and golden histories 




Pearled with the self-same shower. 


Of heaven and its mysteries. 




Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 






Meager from its celled sleep ; 


Thus ye live on high, and then 




And the snake all winter-thin 


On the earth ye live again ; 




Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 


And the souls ye left behind you 




Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 


Teach us, here, the way to find you, 




Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 


Where your other souls are joying, 




When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 


Never slumber'd, never cloying. 




Quiet on her mossy nest ; 


Here, your earth-born souls still speak 




Then the hurry and alarm 


To mortals, of their Httle week; 




When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 


Of their sorrows and delights ; 




Acorns ripe down-pattering, 


Of their passions and their spites ; 




While the autumn breezes sing. 


Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 




0. sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 


Thus ye teach us, every day. 




Every thing h spoilt by use : 


Wisdom, though fled far away. 




Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 






Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 


Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 




Whose lip mature is ever new ? 


Ye have left your souls on earth ! 




Where's the eye, however blue. 


Ye have souls in heaven too, 




Doth not weary ? Where's the face 


Double-lived in regions new ! 




One would meet in every place ? 






Where's the voice, however soft. 










One would hear so very oft ? 






At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 


ROBIN HOOD. 




Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 


TO A FRIEND. 




Thee a mistress to thy mind : 


No ! those days are gone away. 




Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 


And their hours are old and gray, 




Ere the God of Torment taught her 


And their minutes buried all 




How to fi'own and how to chide ; 


Under the down- trodden pall 




With a waist and with a side 


Of the leaves of many years: 




White as Hebe's when her zone 


Many times have Winter's shears. 




Slipt in golden clasp, and down 


Frozen North, and chilling East, 




Fell her kirtle to her feet, 


Sounded tempests to the feast 




While she held the goblet sweet. 


Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 




And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 


Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 




Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 






Quickly break her prison-string, 


No, the bugle sounds no more, 




And such joys as these she'll bring. — 


And the twanging bow no more ; 




Let the winged Fancy roam. 


Silent is the ivory shrill 




Pleasure never is at home. 


Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 








ODE. 


Jesting, deep in forest drear. 




Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 


On the fairest time of June 




Ye have left your souls on earth ! 


You may go, with sun or moon, 




Have ye souls in heaven too, 


Or the seven stars to light you, 




Double-lived in regions new ? 


Or the polar ray to right you ; 




Yes, and those of heaven commune 


But you never may behold 




With the spheres of sun and mcon ; 


Little John, or Robin bold ; 




With the noise of fountains wondrous, 


Never one, of all the clan, 




And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 


Thrumming on an empty can 





6b8 



JOHN KEATS. 



Some old hanring ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the " grene shawe ;" 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze: 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ^ 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honour to the old bow-string ! 
Honour to the bugle -horn ? 
Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
Honour to the Lincoln green ! 
Honour to the archer keen ! 
Honour to tight httle John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honour to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honour to maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 



TO AUTUMN. 



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch- eves 
run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel- 
shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy 
cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 



Or on a half-reap' d furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy 

hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined 
flowers ; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by 
hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are 
they? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying daj^. 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous 
wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 

And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 

Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 

She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh. 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine. 
Though seen of none save him whose Strenu- 
ous tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



LEIGH HUNT. 



Leig-h Hunt is the son of a clergyman of the I 
Church of England, and was born at Southgate, 
in Middlesex, October the 19th, 1784. He, asj 
well as Coleridge and Lamb, received his early 
education at Christ's Hospital, and chiefly under 
the same grammar-master; and, like Lamb, he 
was prevented from going to the University (on 
the Christ's Hospital foundation, it is understood 
to be a preparatory step to holy orders) by an im- 
pediment in his speech — which, however, he had 
the good fortune to overcome. At school, as in 
after life, he was remarkable for exuberance of 
animal spirits, and for passionate attachment to 
his friends, — a feeling, also, which years have not 
diminished ; but he evinced little care for study, 
except when the exercises were inverse, when he 
would -'give up" double the quantity demanded 
from him. His prose themes (he has told us 
among other interesting facts) were generally so 
bad, that the master used to crumple them in his 
hand, and throw them to the boys for their amuse- 
ment. Mr. Hunt has been an ardent though 
never an ungenerous, pohtical partisan, and has 
suffered in almost every possible way for the ad- 
vocacy of opinions, which, whether right or wrong, 
he has lived to |,ee in a great measure triumph. 
He is not the only early struggler for " Reform," 
who has been left by Reformers in power, to be 
recompensed by his own feelings. 

The acquaintance of Mr. Hunt and Lord Byron 
began in prison, where Mr. Hunt was confined for 
the publication of an article in the " Examiner," 
which he then conducted. It was pronounced to 
be a libel on the Prince Regent ; — and originated 
in his sympathy with the sufferings of the people 
of Ireland. To the history of their after inter- 
course we have not space to refer. Time has 
pretty nearly satisfied the world that Mr. Hunt by 
no means overdrew the picture of the noble Bard. 
The leading feature in Mr. Hunt's character is a 
love of truth. This was unpalatable to Lord 
Byron, and, for a time also, to the public. Ani- 
mal spirits, — a power of receiving delight from the 
commonest every-day objects, as well as from re- 
mote ones, — and a sort of luxurious natural piety, 
(so to speak,) are the prevaiUng influences of his 
writings. His friend, Hazlitt, used to say of him, 
in allusion to his spirits, and to his family stock 
(which is from the West Indies,) that he had 
" tropical blood in his veins." 

In person he is tall, and slightly formed; his 
countenance is smgularly fine ; his eyes, like his 



complexion, are dark — but they have a gentle ex- 
pression, akin to that of the gazelle. His look 
and his manner are both kindly and persuasive ; 
indeed we have rarely met any one who so com- 
pletely realizes our notions of benevolence. His 
conversation is exquisitely pleasing, — "combining 
the vivacity of the school boy with the resources 
of the wit, and the taste of the scholar." We 
know little of his political writings ; they must 
have been fierce and bitter, — for they alarmed his 
opponents, and delighted and encouraged his 
friends ; but unquestionably the man is to be sees 
in the tender, graceful, and affectionate effusions 
of the Poet. He is only at home where the heart 
presides. In the earlier part of his career, his 
opinions were assailed with the severest hostility. 
He has outlived the animosity to which he was 
subjected ; the misfortunes to which he has been 
exposed have been met whh philosophy ; and his 
enemies have, like generous antagonists, aided in 
binding up the wounds they had inflicted. He 
has at length received justice from all, — save his 
political " friends." 

The poetry of Leigh Hunt has been, and ever 
will be, appreciated, by all who love nature, and 
sympathize with humanity. It is liable to the 
charge of occasional affectation ; and it is to be 
lamented that, at times, he defaces the beauty of 
a composition by some trifling puerilities, Mr. 
Hazlitt appears to have divined the cause of these 
defects. "From great sanguineness of temper, from 
great quickness and unsuspecting simplicity, he 
runs on to the public as he does at his own fire- 
side, — and talks about himself, forgetting that he 
is not always among friends." This disposition, 
however, is also the main source of his success. 
His nature is essentially good ; and what he writes 
makes its way to the heart. The models he con- 
sults are the true old English Poets ; and the gayer 
spirits of Italy. He is a scholar, and " a special 
lover of books ;" yet we never find in him a touch 
of pedantry. His poetry is Hke his mind, — a sort 
of buoyant outbreak of joyousness ; and when a 
tone of sadness pervades it, is so gentle, confiding, 
i and hoping, as to be far nearer allied to resigna- 
tion than repining. Perhaps there is no Poet who 
so completely pictures himself; it is a fine and na- 
tural and all-unselfish egotism; and a glorious 
contrast to the gloomy and misanthropic moods 
which some Bards have laboured first to acquire, 
and then to portray. 

(58») 



590 



LEIGH HUNT. 



POEMS. 



SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE 
FLOWERS. 



We are blushing roses, 

Bending with our fulness, 
'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds 

Warming the green coolness. 

Whatsoe'er of beauty 

Yearns and yet reposes, 
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, 

Took a shape in roses. 

Hold one of us lightly, — 

See from what a slender 
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms, 

And roundness rich and tender : 

Know you not our only 
Rival flow'r, — the human ? 

Loveliest weight on lightest foot, 
Joy-abundant woman ? 



We are lilies fair, 

The flower of virgin light ; 
Nature held us forth, and said, 

" Lo ! my thoughts of white." 

Ever since then, angels 

Hold us in their hands ; 
You may see them where they take 

In pictures their sweet stands. 

Like the garden's angels 

Also do we seem ; 
And not the less for being crown'd 

With a golden dream. 

Could you see around us 

The enamour'd air, 
You would see it pale with bliss 

To hold a thing so fair. 



We are slumbering poppies. 

Lords of Lethe downs, 
Some awake, and some asleep, 

Sleeping in our crowns. 
What perchance our dreams may know. 
Let our serious beauty show. 

Central depth of purple, 

Leaves more bright than rose,— 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 

Out of darkest grows? 
Who, through what funereal pain, 
Souls to love and peace attain ? 



Visions aye are on us. 

Unto eyes of power ; 
Pluto's alway-setting sun. 

And Proserpine's bower: 
There, like bees, the pale souls come 
For our drink, with drowsy hum. 

Taste, ye mortals, also ; 

Milky-hearted, we ; — 
Taste, but with a reverent care ; 

Active-patient be. 
Too much gladness brings to gloom 
Those who on the gods presume. 



We are the sweet flowers. 

Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 
saiih ;) 

Utterance, mute and bright. 

Of some unknown delight, 
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : 

All who see us love us, — 

We befit all places : 
Unto sorrow we give smiles, — and unto graces, 
graces. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless, 
Though the March-winds pipe, to make OUT 
passage clear ; 
Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells. 
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips 
appear. 
We thread the earth in silence. 
In silence build our bowers, — 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 
a-top, sweet flowers. 

The dear lumpish baby, 
Humming with the May-bee, 
Hsdls us with his bright stare, stumbling through 
the grass ; 
The honey- drooping moon. 
On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the 
bridegroom pass. 
Age, the wither'd dinger, 
On us mutely gazes. 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his 
childhood's daisies. 

See (and scorn all duller 

Taste) how heav'n loves colen ' 
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red andgreen;^ 

What sweet thoughts she thinks 

Of violets and pinks. 
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be 
seen: 

See her whitest Hlies 

Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman 
of her flowers. 

Uselessness divinest. 
Of a use the finest, 



POEMS. 



591 



Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; 
Travellers, weary eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prison' d thoughts we give sudden 
truce : 
Not a poor town window 
Loves its sickliest planting. 
But its wall ^eaks loftier truth than Babylonian 
vaunting. 

Sagest yet the uses, 

Mix'd with our sweet juices, 

Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm; 
As fair fingers heal'd 
Knights from the olden field, 

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 
wildest calm. 
Ev'n the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 

Idfe it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 
presuming. 

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker. 

That thief, the honey maker, 
What a house hath he, by the thy my glen ! 

In his talking rooms 

How the feasting fumes. 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! 

The butterflies come aping 

Those fine thieves of ours, 
And flutter round our rifled tops, hke tickled 
flowers with flowers. 

See those tops, how beauteous ! 

What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine ? 

Elfin court 'twould seem ; 

And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 
nights divine. 

To expound such wonder 

Human speech avails not ; 
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory 
exhales not. 

Think of all these treasures 
I Matchless works and pleasures, 
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; 
Then think in what bright show'rs 
We thicken fields and bow'rs. 
And with what )ieaps of sweetness half stifle 
wanton May ; 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted. 
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 
enchanted. 

Trees themselves are ours ; 
Fruits are born of flowers ; 
Peach, and roughest nut, -were blossoms in the 
spring : '.,'.■ 

The lusty bee krrows well 
The news, and comjes pell-niell. 
And dances in the gloomy tbicjis .with (kicksome 
antheming. , * 

Beneath the very burthe.n 
Of planet-pressing ocean, 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, — a thought 
for meek devotion. 



Tears of Phosbus, — missings 

Of Cytherea's kissings. 
Have in us been found, and wise men find them 
still ; 

Drooping grace unfurls 

Still Hyacinthus' curls. 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill : 

Thy red lip, Adonis, 

Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar 
adorning. 

Oh ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables. 
And the flow'rs are true things, — yet no fables 
they ; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore, — 
Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old 
pathway : 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never : — 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, — marvels sweet 
for ever. 

Who shall say, that flowers 
Dress not heaven's own bowers? 
Who its love, without us, can fancy — or sweet 
floor ? 
Who shall even dare 
To say, we sprang not there, — 
And came not down that Love might bring one 
piece of heav'n the more ? 
Oh ! pray believe that angels 
From those blue dominions, 
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twuct their 
golden pinions. 



TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My Httle, patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths oflTthe day's annoy. 
I sit me down, and think 

Of all thy winning ways; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 

That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillow' d meekness. 

Thy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness. 

Of fancied faults afraid; 
The little trembling hand 

That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
These, these are things that may demand 
' Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly 'midst my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow: 
But when thy fingers press. 

And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 

The tears are in their bed. 



593 



LEIGH HUNT. 



Ah ! firstborn of thy mother, 

When hfe and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father, too : 
My Ught where'er I go. 

My bird when prison bound, — ' 
My hand in hand companion, — no, 

My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say, " He has departed,"— 

" His voice," — " his face," — " is gone ;" 
To feel impatient-hearted, 

Yet feel we must bear on: 
Ah, I could not endure 

To whisper of such woe, 
Unless I felt this sleep insure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping '. 

This silence too the while — 
Its very hush and creeping 

Seem whispering us a smile :— 
Something divine and dim 

Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of cherubim, 

Who say, " We've finished here." 



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

KiN& Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal 
sport. 

And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on 
the court ; 

The nobles fiU'd the benches round, the ladies by 
their side, 

And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with 
one for whom he sigh'd : 

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crown- 
ing show, 

Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal 
beasts below. 

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing 

jaws ; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows hke beams, a 

wind went with their paws ; 
With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll' d 

on one another. 
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a 

thunderous smother ; 
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing 

through the air : 
Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're 

better here than there." 

De Lorge's love o'^rheard the king, a beauteous, 

lively dame. 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which 

always seem'd the same ; 
She thought. The count, my lover, is brave as 

brave can be — 
He surely would do wondrous things to show his 

love of me : 
King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is 

divine, — 
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory 

will be mine. 



She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then 

look'd at him and smiled ; 
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the 

lions wild : 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has re- 

gain'd the place. 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in 

the lady's face. 
•' By God !" cried Francis, " rightly done !" and 

he rose from where he sat ; 
" No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a 

task hke that!" 



THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE 
SPIRIT. 



You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced, 
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea, 
Gulping salt water everlastingly. 

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be 
graced. 

And mute though dwellers in the roaring waste ; 
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,-— 
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry. 

Legless, unloving, infamously chaste ; 

scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights. 
What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull 
goggles ? 
How do ye vary your vile days and nights ? 
How pass your Sundays ? Are ye still but 
joggles 
In ceaseless wash ? Still nought but gapes, and 
bites. 
And drinks, and stares, diversified with bog- 
gles ? 

A FISH ANSWERS. 

Amazing monster ! that, for aught I know. 
With the first sight of thee didst make our 

race 
For ever stare ! O flat and shocking face. 

Grimly divided from the breast below ! 

Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go 
With a split body, and most ridiculous pace 
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, 

Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow '. 

breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air. 
How canst exist ! How bear thyself, thou dry 

And dreary sloth ? What particle canst share 
Of the only blessed life, the watery? 

1 sometimes see of ye an actual pair 

Go by 1 link'd fin by fin 1 most odiously, 

THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A 
SPIRIT, AND AGAIN SPEAKS. 

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, 
O man ! and loathe, but with a sort of love ; 
For diflference must itself by diflference prove,' 

And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill. 



POEMS, 



593 



One of the spirits am I, that at their will 
Live in whate'er has life — fish, eagle, dove — 
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, 

A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill. 

Man's hfe is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and 
graves. 
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere, 
Heaven-gazing ; and his angel- wings he craves : — 
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet 
clear, 
A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves, 
Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE 
ANGEL. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may hi^ tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night firom a deep dream of peace, 



And saw, within the moonlight in his room. 

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 

An angel, writing in a book of gold; 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : 

And to the presence in the room he said, 

" What writest thou ?" The vision raised its 

head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not 

so;" 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one. that loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next 

night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And show'd the names whom love of God had 

bless'd, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem' s name led all the rest. 



75 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



Allan CuNNiKaHAM was born at Blackwood, 
a place of much natural beauty, on Nithside, a 
few miles above Dumfries, on thg 7ih of Decem- 
ber, 1784. His father and grandfather were far- 
mers ; and one of his ancestors, an officer under 
the great Montrose, shared in his leader's good 
and evil fortune at Kilsythe and Philiphaugh. 
Some hopes held out by a relative of a situation in 
India, having, it appears, failed, Allan, at eleven 
years of age, was removed from school, to learn, 
under an elder brother, his business of a mason. 
This he did not dislike, and soon became a skilful 
workman ; but he loved still better to pore over 
old books — listen to old songs and tales — and 
roam among his native glens and hills. A thirst 
for knowledge came early ; but a love of writing, 
as we have heard him say, came late. Some of 
his lyrics, however, found their way into a singu- 
lar book, — Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and 
Galloway Songs," — and, passing for ancient, were 
received with an applause which at once startled 
and amused the writer. Dr. Percy boldly de- 
clared they were too good to be old ; and the 
author of " Marmion" has more than once said, 
that not even Burns himself has enriched Scottish 
song with more beautiful effusions. In 1810, Mr. 
Cunningham was allured from the Nith to the 
Thames.. For some years he attached himself to 
the public press ; and in 1814, entered the studio of 
Sir Francis Chantrey, the distinguished sculptor, as 
superintendent of his works, — a station which he 
continued to occupy till Sir Francis's death. The 
first volume he ventured to publish was "Sir Mar- 
maduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, named after 
one of the heroes of his native district. It was well 
received by critics; and Sir Walter Scott generously 

"Handed the rustic stranger up to fame," 

by a kind notice of his first attempt in the Preface 
to the ' ' Fortunes of Nigel.' ' Thenceforward Mr. 
Cunningham took his place among the Poets of 
Great Britain. He has since supplied us with but 
occasional proofs of his right to retain it ; having 
devoted much of his leisure to the production of 
prose works of fiction ; and commenced an under- 
taking of vast magnitude and importance, — the 
" Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge ;" 
— a task for which he is eminently qualified. 
Few modern writers are more universally re- 



spected and esteemed than Mr. Cunningham ; he 
numbers among his personal friends all the most 
eminent and accomplished of his contemporaries : 
in private life he has ever been irreproachable ; — 
an early and a happy marriage probably preserved 
him from the errors and eccentricities which too 
generally mark the career of a youth of genius 
upon entering the perilous maze of the metropoUs ; 
where hundreds of as rare promise have sunk 
under the effect of dissipation and despondency ; 
and whose names are to be found only in the ter- 
rible records of " Calamities of Authors." Cun- 
ningham, in person, seems better fitted to deal 
with huge blocks of marble than with creations of 
fancy. His frame is of vigorous proportions ; his 
countenance highly expressive of mental as well 
as physical power ; his eye keen and searching, 
but peculiarly gentle and winning. He combines 
industry with genius, and a most rigid integrity 
with both. His biographies have been objected to 
on the ground that he has seen more to censure 
than to praise in the subjects of them : if, however, 
such contributions are valuable only as they are 
TKUE, and in proportion to their distance from the 
imaginative and the misleading, they are the best, 
and will be the most enduring of his works. 

The poems of Cunningham, as we have inti- 
mated, are not numerous ; his last poetical pro- 
duction of any length, — the Maid of Elvar, — ^is, 
perhaps, his best: the scene of this little rustic 
epic, as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native 
vale ; and many of the delicious pictures it con- 
tains, with a true vein of poetry throughout, are 
drawn from rural life. It is, however, written in 
a measure ill calculated to become extensively 
popular. The poetical reputation of Allan Cun- 
ningham has been made, and is sustained, by his 
ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in 
feeling — chaste and elegant in style — graceful in 
expression, and natural in conception : they seem, 
indeed, the mere and unstudied outpourings of the 
heart ; yet will bear the strictest and most critical 
inspection of those who consider elaborate finish 
to be at least the second requisite of the writers of 
song. His own country has supplied him with his 
principal themes ; and the peculiar dialect of Scot- 
land — ^in which he frequently writes — his good 
taste prevents him from ever rendering harsh, or 
even inharmonious, to Southern ears. 

(594) 



POEMS. 



595 



POEMS. 



THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. 

Child of the country ! free as air 

Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 

Born, Uke the lily, where the dew 

Lies odorous when the day is new ; 

Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee. 

Nursed to sweet music on the knee, 

Luli'd in the breast to that glad tune 

Which winds make 'mong the woods of June: 

I sing of thee ; — 'tis sweet to sing 

Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 

Child of the town ! for thee I sigh ; 
A gilded roof's thy golden sky, 
A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
A narrow street thy boundless road, 
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp 
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp, — 
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : 
I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. 

Child of the country ! thy small feet 
Tread on strawberries red and sweet ; 
With thee I wander forth to see 
The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
The bush, o'er v/hich the throstle sung 
In April, while she nursed her young ; 
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
She bred her twins the timorous hare ; 
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, 
Where brown bees build their balmy cells ; 
The greenwood stream, the shady pool. 
Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
A portion of the sheltering tree, — 
And other marvels which my verse 
Can find no language to rehearse. 

Child of the town! for thee, alas ! 
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; 
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
Glad streams come singing as they run : 
A Maypole is thy blossom' d tree, 
A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare ; 
Thy fruit is pluck' d, and bv the pound 
Hawk'd clamorous all the city round ; 
No roses, twinborn on the stalk, 
Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
The mingled din of cars and drums. 
And starthng cries, such as are rife 
When wine and wassail waken strife. 

Child of the country ! on the lawn 
I see thee like the bounding fawn. 
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
The first time on the winds of spring ; 



Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
He comes as cocks are crowing loud; 
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, 
Now groping trouts in lucid streams. 
Now spinning hke a mill-wheel round. 
Now hunting echo's empty sound. 
Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee 
To sit where birds can sit alone. 
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 

Child of the town and bustling street, 
What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
Thy paths are paved for five long miles. 
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
Which shrouds thee hke a mourning cloak ; 
And thou art cabin' d and confined, 
At once from sun, and dew, and wind ; 
Or set thy tottering feet but on 
Thy lengthen' d walks of slippery stone; 
The coachman there careering reels 
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 
And Commerce pours each poring son 
In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run : 
While flush' d with wine, and stung at play, 
Menrush from darkness into day. 
The stream's too strong for thy small bark; 
There nought can sail, save what is stark. 

Fly from the town, sweet child !.for health 
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
There is a lesson in each flower, 
A story in each stream and bower ; 
On every herb on which you tread 
Are written words wliich, rightly read, 
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, 
To hope, and holiness, and God. 



AWAKE, MY LOVE! 

Awake, my love ! ere morning's ray 
Throws off" night's weed of pilgrim gray; 
Ere yet the hare, cower' d close from view, 
Licks from her fleece the clover dew : 
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings. 
By hunters roused from secret springs : 
Or birds upon the boughs awake, 
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake. 

She comb'd her curling ringlets down, 
Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon; 
And from her home, by Preston-burn, 
Came forth the rival light of morn. 
The lark's song dropp'd, — now loud, now hush,* 
The goldspink answer'd from the bush ; 
The plover, fed on heather crop, 
Call'd from the misty mountain top. 

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day 
Grows into gold from silvery gray. 
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake, 
Instinct with soul of song awake ; — 
To see the smoke, in many a wreath, 
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath, 
Where yon blithe mower hastes along 
With glittering scythe and rustic song. 



596 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



Yes, lovely one ! and dost thou mark 
The moral of yon carolling lark ? 
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue 
The warning precept of her song ? 
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove 
Warms its wild note with nuptial love ; 
The bird, the bee, with various sound, 
Proclaim the evv^eets of wedlock round. 



THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL. 

The laverock loves the dewy hght. 

The bee the balmy foxglove fair ; 
The shepherd loves the glowing morn, 

When song and sunshine fill the air : 
But I love best the summer moon, 

With all her stars, pure streaming still ; 
For then, in light and love I meet 

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill. 

The violets lay their blossoms low. 
Beneath her white foot, on the plain; 

Their fragrant heads the lilies wave, 
Of her superior presence fain. 

might I clasp her to my heart. 
And of her ripe lips have my will ! 

For loath to woo, and long to win. 
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill. 

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew, 

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon ; 
Rills murmur' d music, and the stars 

Refused to set our heads aboon : 
Ye might have heard our beating hearts, 

Our mixing breaths, — all was so still, 
Till morning's light shone on her locks, — 

Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill. 

Wert thou an idol all of gold. 
Had I the eye of worldish care, — 

1 could not think thee half so sweet, 
Look on thee so, or love thee mair. 

Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye, 
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,— 

Thine every wish of joy and love. 
My lass of green Gleneslan-mill ! 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

O ! MY love's like the steadfast sun, 

Or streams that deepen as they run : 

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 

Nor moments between sighs and fears ; 

Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 

Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, — 

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 

To sober joys and soften woes, 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued 
Ye seem, but of sedater mood : 
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 



We stayed and wooed, and thought the mooa 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew. 

When looks were fond, and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; 

And time, and care, and birth-time woes 

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rosd: 

To thee, and thoughts .of thee, belong 

All that charms me of tale or song ; 

When words come down like dews unsought> 

With gleams of deep enthusiast thought ; 

And fancy in her heaven flies free, — 

They come, my love, they come from thee. 

O, when more thought we gave of old 

To silver than some give to gold, 

'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 

What things should deck our humble bower ! 

'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 

The golden fruit from fortune's tree ; 

And sweeter still, to choose and twine 

A garland for these locks of thine ; 

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 

While rivers flow, and woods arc green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought, — 
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like the rainbow through the shower : 

then I see, while seated nigh, 

A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; 
And proud resolve, and purpose meek, ' 
Speak of thee more than words can speak,— 

1 think the wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that's not divine ! 



A WET SHEET AND FLOWING SEA- 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, — 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast : 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft atid gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And whiti waves heaving high : 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The goo^i ship tight and free, — 
The world of waters is our home. 

And me/ry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark ! the music, mariners, 

The wind is piping loud : 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free,— 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



1 



JOHN CLARE. 



John Clare was born at Helpstone, near Peter- 
borough, Northamptonshire, in 1793. His father 
was a day labourer; and the Poet was acquainted 
with Poverty long before he associated with the 
Muse. His manhood has been domed to a lot as 
severe, and it would seem that want is his only 
prospect in old age ; for modern legislation has 
deprived him even of the "hope" on which he 
reckons, in one of his early poems, as a "last re- 
source," 

"To claim the humble pittance once a week, 
Which justice forces from disdainful pride." 

The story of his life presents, perhaps, one of 
the most striking and affecting examples that the 
history of unhappy genius has ever recorded ; il- 
lustrating in a sad and grievous manner the misery 
produced by the gift of mind in an humble sta- 
tion, — by great thoughts nourished in unfitting 
places. If ever the adage which tells us that a 
Poet is born a Poet, has been practically realized, 
it is in the case of the peasant of Northampton- 
shire. If ever the pursuit of knowledge under 
difficulties has been made clear beyond a doubt, 
it is in his case. It is our melancholy task to add 
— if ever the oft-denied assertion, that genius is 
but the heritage of woe, may be placed beyond 
controversy, it is in this instance also. By work- 
ing "over-hours," he contrived to earn enough to 
pay for learning to read ; the savings of eight 
weeks sufficed to obtain a month's " schoohng;" 
and his first object having been achieved, his next 
was to procure books. A shilling made him the 
master of Thomson's " Seasons;" and he imme- 
diately began to compose poetry: but for some 
time afterwards, being unable to master funds to 
procure paper, he was compelled to entrust to his 
memory the preservation of his verses. He lived 
in the presence of Nature, and worshipped her 
with a genuine and natural passion: "the com- 
mon air, the sun, the skies;" the "old familiar 
faces" of the green fields, with their treasures of 
blade and wild flower, were the sources of his in- 
spiration: and the people — their customs, their 
loves, their griefs, and their amusements — were 
the themes of his verse. Thus he went on, 
making and writing poetry, for thirteen years, 
"without having received a single word of en- 
couragement, and without the most distant pros- 
pect of reward.' ' Perhaps his destiny would have 



been happier had he never encountered either. 
Accident, however, led to the publication of a 
volume of his Poems : it passed through several 
editions, and brought money to the writer ; a few 
" noble" patrons doled out some guineas ; and we 
believe something like an annuity was purchased 
for the Poet ; — several other volumes followed ; 
but the public no longer sympathized when they 
ceased to be astonished, — and latterly we imagine, 
not only has the writer received nothing for his 
productions, but the sale of them has not sufficed 
to pay the expenses of their publication. 

Clare has, we understand, made an unsuccess- 
ful, indeed a ruinous attempt to improve his con- 
dition, by farming the ground he tilled ; and has 
for some years existed in a state of poverty, as 
utter and hopeless as that in which he passed his 
youth. He has a wife and a very large family ; 
and it is stated to us, that at times his mind gives 
way under the sickness of hope deferred. His 
appearance, when some years ago it was our lot 
to know him, was that of a simple rustic ; and his 
manners were remarkably gentle and unassuming. 
He was short and thick, yet not ungraceful, in 
person. His countenance was plain but agreeable ; 
he had a look and manner so dreamy, as to have 
appeared sullen — but for a peculiarly winning 
smile ; and his forehead was so broad and high as 
to have bordered on deformity. Further, we be- 
lieve that in his unknown and uncherished youth, 
and in his after-days when some portion of fame 
and honour fell to his share, he maintained a fair 
character, and has subjected himself to no charge 
more unanswerable than that of indiscretion in ap- 
plying the very limited funds with which he was 
furnished after the world heard of his name, and 
was loud in applause of his genius. It is not yet 
too late for a hand to reach him ; a very envied 
celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and 
good " Samaritan ;"— Strawberry Hill might be 
gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved 
Chatterton. 

We do not place him too high when we rank 
John Clare at the head of the Poets who were, • 
and continued to be, " uneducated," according to 
the stricter meaning of the term. The most ac- 
complished of British Poets will not complain at 
finding him introduced into their society :— setting 
aside all consideration of the peculiar circum- 
stances under which he wrote, he is worthy to 
take his place among them. 

(597) 



598 



JOHN CLARE. 



POEMS. 



JUNE. 

-There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and 

tale, 
He lightens annual toil, while merry ale 
Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to 

praise 
The threadbare customs of his early days : 
How the high bowl was in the middle set 
At breakfast-time, when clippers yearly met, 
Fill'd full of furmety, where dainty swum 
The streaking sugar and the spotting plum. 
The maids could never to the table bring 
The bowl, without one rising from the ring 
To lend a hand; who, if 'twere ta'en amiss, 
Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss. 
The large stone pitcher in its homely trim, 
And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim, 
Were there ; from which were drunk, with spirits 

high. 

Healths of the best the cellar could supply; 
While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth 

' rhymes, 
Songs that were pictures of the good old times. 
*■* * * * * * * 

Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways. 
Keep up a shadow still of former days ; 
But the old beechen bowl, that once supphed 
The feast of furmety, is thrown aside ; 
And the old freedom that was living then, 
When masters made them merry with their men ; 
When all their coats alike were russet brown. 
And his rude speech was vulgar as their own- 
All this is past, and soon will pass away. 
The time-torn remnant of the holiday. 



THE QUIET MIND. 

THOtTGH low my lot, my wish is won, 

My hopes are few and staid ; 
All I thought life would do is done. 

The last request is made. 
If I have foes, no foes I fear. 

To fate I live resigned.; 
I have a friend I value here, 

And that's a quiet mind. 

I wish not it was mine to wear 

Flush' d honour's sunny crown ; 
I wish not I were Fortune's heir, 

She frowns, and let her frown. 
I have no taste for pomp and strife, 

Which others love to find : 
I only wish the bhss of life — 

A poor and quiet mind. 

The trumpet's taunt in battle-field. 
The great man's pedigree, — 

What peace can all their honours yield ? 
4 nri what are they to me ? 



Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife, 

Rave hke a mighty wind ; 
What are they to the calm of Ufe— 

A still and quiet mind ? 

I mourn not that my lot is low, 

I wish no higher state ; 
I sigh not that Fate made me so, 

Nor tease her to be great. 
I am content — for well I see 

What all at last shall find, — 
That life's worst lot the best may be, 

If that's a quiet mind. 

I see the world pass heedless by, 

And pride above me tower ; 
It costs me not a single sigh 

For either wealth or power : 
They are but men, and I'm a man 

Of quite as great a kind, — 
Proud, too, that life gives all she can, 

A calm and quiet mind. 

I never mocked at beauty's shrine, 

To stain her lips with lies ; 
No knighthood's fame or luck was minCt 

To win love's richest prize : 
And yet I've found in russet weed, 

What all will wish to find. 
True love and comfort's prize indeed, 

A glad and quiet mind. 

And come what will of care or woe, 

As some must come to all ; 
I'll wish not that they were not so, 

Nor mourn that they befall : 
If tears for sorrows start at will, 

They're comforts in their kind ; 
And I am blest, if with me still 

Remains a quiet mind. 

When friends depart, as part they must, 

And love's true joys decay, 
That leave us like the summer dust, 

Which whirlwinds pulf away : 
While life's allotted time I brave. 

Though left the last behind ; 
A prop and friend I still shall have. 

If I've a quiet mind. 



MARY LEE. 



I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear. 

Gather' d all for thee? 
They are not flowers of pride. 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in heaven's smile. 

My gentle Mary Lee I 
Can they fear thy frowns the while, 

Though offered by me ? 

Here's the lily of the vale, 
That perfumed the morning gale, 



POEMS. 



^99 



My fairy Mary Lee ! 
All so spotless and so pale, 

Like thine own purity. 
And, might I make it known, 
'Tis an emblem of my own 
Love — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Surely flowers can bear no blame, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 

Here's the violet's modest blue, 

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
Would show whose heart is true. 

While it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot, 
The sun disdains them not ; 
I'm as lowly, too, indeed. 

My charming Mary Lee ; 
So I've brought the flowers to plead, 

And win a smile from thee. 

Here's a wild rose just in bud ; 
Spring's beauty in its hood. 

My bonny Mary Lee I 
'Tis the first in all the wood 

I could find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
Yet it hides its worth within. 
Like my love ; for I've no power, 

My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak, unless the flower 

Can make excuse for me. 

Though they deck no princely halls, 
In bouquets for glittering balls, 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Richer hues than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee ; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canopy, 
Than all wealth's golden skill. 

My charming Mary Lee ! 
Love would make them dearer still. 

That offers them to thee. 

My wreathed flowers are few. 
Yet no fairer drink the dew, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
They may seem as trifles too — 

Not I hope to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and wealth's disguise ; 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more? 

Surely not, Mary Lee ! 



JULY. 



Loud is the Summer's busy song. 
The smallest breeze can find a tongue. 
While insects of each tiny size 
Grow teasing with their melodies, 
Till noon burns with its blistering breath 
Around, and day dies still as death. 



The busy noise of man and brute 

Is on a sudden lost and mute ; 

Even the brook that leaps along 

Seems weary of its bubbling song. 

And so soft its waters creep. 

Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep ; 

The cricket on its bank is dumb. 

The very flies forget to hum ; 

And, save the wagon rocking round. 

The landscape sleeps without a sound. 

The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough 

Hath not a leaf that dances now ; 

The taller grass upon the hill. 

And spiders' threads are standing still ; 

The feathers dropp'd, from moorhen's wing, 

Which to the water's surface chng, 

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem. 

As stones beneath them in the stream ; 

Hawkweed and groundsels' fanning downs 

Unruffled keep their seedy crowns ; 

And in the oven-heated air. 

Not one light thing is floating there. 

Save that to the earnest eye, 

The restless heat seems twittering by. 

Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, 

And flowers e'en within the shade, 

Until the sun slopes in the west 

Like weary traveller, glad to rest. 

On pillow'd clouds of many hues ; 

Then Nature's voice its joy renews, 

And chequered field and grassy plain 

Hum with their summer songs again, 

A requiem to the day's dechne. 

Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine. 

As welcome to day's feeble powers. 

As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 



A SUMMER MORNING. 

The cocks have now the morn foretold. 

The sun again begins to peep. 
The shepherd, whistling to his fold, 

Unpens and frees the captive sheep. 
O'er pathless plains at early hours 

The sleepy rustic slowly goes ; 
The dews, brush'd off" from grass and flowers, 

Remoistening sop his hardened shoes; 

While every leaf that forms a shade. 

And every floweret's silken top. 
And every shivering bent and blade. 

Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. 
But soon shall fly those diamond drops. 

The red round sun advances higher. 
And, stretching o'er the mountain tops, 

Is gilding sweet the village spire. 

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, 

Or list the gurgling of the brook ; 
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees, 

Peruse and pause on Nature's book, 
When Nature every sweet prepares 

To entertain our wish'd delay, — 
The images which morning wears. 

The wakening charms of early day! 



600 



JOHN CLARE. 



Now let nie tread the meadow paths 

While glittering dew the ground illumes, 
As, sprinkled o'er the withermg swathes, 

Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes ; 
And hear the beetle sound his horn ; 

And hear the skylark whistling high, 
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, 

A hailing minstrel in the sky. 



THE WITHERED TREE. 

Old tree, thou art withered — I passed thee last 
year, 
And the blackbird snug hid in thy branches did 
sing, 
Thy shadows stretched over the grass sprouting 
near. 
And thou wert as green as thy mates of the 
spring. 



How altered since then ! not a leaf hast thou 
got. 
Thy honours brown round thee that clothed the 
tree ; 
The clown passeth by thee and heedeth thee 
not, 
But thou'rt a warm source of reflection for me. 

I think while I view thee, and rest on the stile, 
Life's bloom is as frail as the leaves thou hast 
shed ; 
Like thee, I may boast of my honours awhile, 
But new springs may blossom, and mine may 
be fled. 

Fond friends may bend o'er the raised turf where 
I'm laid, 
And warm recollection the past may look o'er. 
And say by my life, as I say by thy shade, 
" Last spring he was living, but now he's no 
more." 



THOMAS HOOD. 



Thomas Hood was born in the Poultry, Lon- 
don, 1798. His father was a native of Scotland, 
and, for many years, acting partner in the firm of 
Vernor, Hood, and Sharp, extensive Booksellers 
and Publishers. Thomas Hood was in his child- 
hood remarkable for great vivacity of spirits ; and 
at a very early age gave tokens of the genius for 
which he has since been distinguished. When a 
boy, our informant states, "he was continually 
making shrewd and pointed remarks upon topics 
of which he was presumed to know nothing." 
He finished his education at Mr. Wanostrocht's 
academy, Camberwell ; and on leaving school, 
his health being precarious, he was recommended 
to try the effect of a sea voyage on his constitution. 
The sea, however, appears to have had no attrac- 
tions for the future Poet : in one of the pleasantest 
of his poems he sums up all the annoyances to 
which those who are ' ' far from the land' ' are 
invariably subjected : — 

"All the sea dangers, 
Buccaneers, rangers, 
Pirates and Sallee-man, 
Algerine galleymen. 
Tornadoes and Typhons, 
And horrible Syphons," 
See. &c. &c. 

Mr. Hood subsequently reside! for a considerable 
period with his relatives in D'.mdee ; and on his 
return to London, having maniie.jfed a taste for 
drawing, and expressed a desire to pursue the art 
of engraving, he was articled to his uncle, Mr. 
Robert Sands, with a view to acquire a knowledge 
of the profession. He passed two years sketching 
with the pencil, now and then taking up the 
graver, but chiefly composing poetry : his com- 
positions found their way into the ' London Ma- 
gazine," and at once attracted attention. A path 
to fame was speedily marked out for him ; and 
he has taken his station as one of the most original 
and agreeable writers of the day. 

The countenance of Mr. Hood is more solemn 
than merry : there is nothing in his appearance to 
indicate that wit and humour for which he is so 
eminent. He is by no means brilliant in conver- 
sation ; but seems as if continually taking in the 
matter which he gives out sparingly in general 
society. We beheve, indeed, that his mind is 
serious rather than comic ; that the poems which 
76 



have made so many laugh, are the produce of 
deep thought and study, and by no means the 
outbreaks of natural humour. We think we per- 
ceive this even in his merriest strains : few of 
them are without a touch of melancholy ; and 
the topics he selects as fittest for him, are usually 
of a grave and sombre cast. We have never 
known him laugh heartily, either in company or 
in rhyme. It is highly to his credit, that with so 
much power in dealing with the burlesque, he 
has never indulged in personal satire : we look in 
vain through his books for a single passage that 
can give pain to any Hving person ; neither does 
he ever verge upon indelicacy, or treat with light- 
ness or indifference sacred subjects. Perhaps it 
is impossible to find a greater contrast than that 
which is presented by the writings of Thomas 
Hood, and Peter Pindar. The one cannot be 
facetious without exhibiting venom ; — the other, 
in his most playful moments, is never either ill- 
tempered or envious. Indeed, kindliness, benevo- 
lence, and generosity are the characteristics even 
of Mr. Hood's "satirical" productions. 

It is, however, less to the humorous than to the 
serious compositions of Thomas Hood that we 
desire to direct the reader's attention. His name 
is so completely linked with "joking," that few 
are at all aware of his exquisite talent for pure 
and genuine poetry. While his "Whims and 
Oddities" have passed through many editions, 
his " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" has never 
reached a second; and while his " Comic An- 
nuals" have brought him a large income, his 
delicious Lyrics have scarcely yielded sufficient 
to pay the printer. We refer to the few extracts 
we have selected, for proof that Mr. Hood has 
claims to a far higher and more enviable reputa- 
tion than that which his "puns" have conferred 
upon him. More tender, more graceful, or more 
beautifully wrought lyrics are scarcely to be 
found in the language. They ' ' smack of the 
old Poets ;" they have all the truth and nature 
for which the great Bards are pre-eminent : and 
while Mr. Hood has caught their spirit, he has 
not fallen into the error that has proved fatal to 
many of his contemporaries, a mistaken notion 
that by copying the slips and blots which occa- 
sionally mar the delicate beauty of their writings, 
he was imitating their style and character. 

(601) 



602 



THOMAS HOOD. 



POEMS 



TO A COLD BEAUTY. 

Lady, would' st thou heiress be 
To winter's cold and cruel part ? 

When he sets the rivers free, 

Thou dost still lock up thy heart : 

Thou that should' st outlast the snow 

But in the whiteness of thy brow ? 

Scorn and cold neglect are made 
For winter gloom and winter wind ; 

But thou wilt wrong the summer air, 
Breathing it to words unkind : 

Breath which only should belong 

To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 

When the little buds unclose, 
Red, and white, and pied, and blue; 

And that virgin flower, the rose, 
Opes her heart to hold the dew,— 

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 

With no jewel in its cup ? 

Let not cold December sit 

Thus in love's peculiar throne ; 

Brooklets are not prison'd now, 
But crystal frosts are all agone ; 

And that which hangs upon the spray, 

It is no snow, but flower of May ! 



RUTH, 



She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasp'd by the golden hght of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush. 
Deeply ripened: — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born. 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell. 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long lashes veil'd a light, 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim. 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks 
Praising God with sweetest looks :— 

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean 
Where I reap thou should' st but glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 



BALLAD. 



She's up and gone, the graceless girl! 

And robb'd my failing years; 
My blood before was thin and cold, 

But now 'tis turn'd to tears: 



My shadow falls upon my grave, 

So near the brink I stand ; 
She might have stayed a little yet, 

And led me by the hand ! 

Ay, call her on the barren moor, 

And call her on the hill ; 
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry. 

And plovers answer shrill : 
My child is flown on wilder wings 

Than they have ever spread : 
And I may even walk a waste 

That widen' d when she fled. 

Full many a thankless child has been,— 

But never one hke mine ; 
Her meat was served on plates of gold, 

Her drink was rosy wine : 
But now she'll share the robin's food, 

And sup the common rill. 
Before her feet will turn again 

To meet her father's will ! 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I REMEMBER, I remember, 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn: 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 

I remember, I remember. 

The roses — red and white ; 
The violets and the lily-cups. 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The hlacs where the robin built. 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 

The tree is Hving yet ! 

I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing; 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing : 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember. 

The fir trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 
It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heav'n 

Than when I was a boy ! 



ODE. 

Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 
In summer time, and sigh, " O ruB !" 
Of London pleasures sick : 



POEMS. 



603 



My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades, — my eyes detest 
This endless meal of brick ! 

What joy have I in June's return? 
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn ; 

I scent no flowery gust : 
But faint the flagging zephyr springs, 
With dry Macadam on its wings, 

And turns me " dust to dust." 

My sun his daily course renews 
Due east, but with no eastern dews ; 

The path is dry and hot ! 
His setting shows more tamely still, 
He sinks behind no purple hill, 

But down a chimney's pot! 



Oh ! but to hear the milk-maid bUthe, 
Or early mower whet his scythe 

The dewy meads among ! 
My grass is of that sort, alas ! 
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-, 

By folks of vulgar tongue ! 



Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet ! 
I think of cowslip -cups, — but meet 

With very vile rebuffs ! 
For meadow buds, I get a whiff 
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff 

The turtle made at Cuff's. 

How tenderly Rousseau review'd 
His periwinkles ! mine are strew'd ! 

My rose blooms on a gown ! 
I hunt in vain for eglantine. 
And find my blue-bell on the sign 

That marks the Bell and Crown ! 

Where are ye, birds ! that blithely wing 
From tree to tree, and gaily sing 

Or mourn in thickets deep ? 
My cuckoo has some ware to sell, 
The watchman is my Philomel, 

My blackbird is a sweep ! 

Where are ye, linnet ! lark! and thrush ! 
That perch on leafy bough and bush, 

And tune the various song ? 
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor 
Street- Handel grinding at my door. 

Are all my " tuneful throng." 

Where are ye, early-purling streams, 
Whose waves reflect the morning beams, 

And colours of the skies ? 
My rills are only puddle-drains 
From shambles, or reflect the stains 

Of cahmanco-dyes. 

Sweet are the little brooks that run 
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, 

Singing in soothing tones: 
Not thus the city streamlets flow ; 
They make no music as they go. 

Though never "off the stones." 

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, 
Thai wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap 



Beside your woolly dams ? 
Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, 
My Corydons use iron hooks. 

And skin — not shear — the lambs. 

The pipe whereon, in olden day, 
Th' Arcadian herdsmen us'd to play 

Sweetly, here soundeth not ; 
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes, 
Meanwhile the city boor consumes 

The rank weed — "piping hot." 

All rural things are vilely mock'd, 
On every hand the sense is shock'd 

With objects hard to bear : 
Shades — vernal shades ! where wine is sold! 
And for a turfy bank, behold 

An Ingram's rustic chair ! 

Where are ye, London meads and bow'rs, 
And gardens redolent of flow'rs 

Wherein the zephyr wons ? 
Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more ! 
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er; 

And that bare wood, — St. John's. 

No pastoral scene procures me peaces 
I hold no leasowes in my lease. 

No cot set round with trees : 
No sheep- white hill my dwelling flanks; 
And omnium furnishes my banlis 

With brokers, not with bees. 

Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 

In summer time, and sigh, " O rus!" 

Of city pleasures sick : 
My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades, — my eyes detest 

This endless meal of brick. 



BALLAD. 



It was not in the winter 

Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 

That churlish season never frowned 

On early lovers yet ! 
Oh no, — the world was newly crowned 

With flowers, when first we met. 

'Twas twihght, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 

What else could peer my glowing cheek 

That tears began to stud ? 
And when I asked the like of love, 

You snatched a damask bud ; — 

And oped it to the dainty core. 

Still glowing to the last ; 
It was the time of roses, — 

We plucked them as we passed ! 



604 



THOMAS HOOD, 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 

Oh when I was a tiny boy 

My days and nights were full of joy, 

My mates were blithe and kind ! 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye. 

To cast a look behind ! 

A hoop was an eternal round 

Of pleasure. In those days I found 

A top a joyous thing ; — 
But now those past delights I drop, 
My head, alas ! is all my top, 

And careful thoughts the string ! 

My marbles — once my bag was stored— 
Now I must play with Elgin's lord, 

"With Theseus for a taw I 
My playful horse has slipp'd his string. 
Forgotten all his capering, 

And harness 'd to the law ! 

My kite — how fast and far it flew ! 
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 

My pleasure from the sky ! 
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, 
The tasks I wrote — my present dreams 

Will never soar so high. 

My joys are wingless all and dead ; 
My dumps are made of more than lead ; 

My flights soon find a fall : 
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
Joy never cometh with a whoop. 

And seldom with a call '. 

My football's laid upon the shelf;— 
I am a shuttlecock myself, 

The world knocks to and fro — 
My archery is all unlearn'd, 
And grief against myself has turn'd 

My arrows and my bow ! 

No more in noontide sun I bask ; 
My authorship's an endless task, 

My head's ne'er out of school. — 
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, 
I have too many foes to fight. 

And friends grown strangely cool I 

The very chum that shared my cake 
Holds out so cold a hand to shake 

It makes me shrink and sigh — 
On this I will not dwell and hang. 
The changeling would not feel a pang 

Though these should meet his eye ! 

No skies so blue, or so serene 

As then ; — no leaves look half so green 

As clothed the playground tree ! 
All things I loved are alter'd so. 
Nor does it ease my heart to know 

That change resides in me ! 

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boy— 
The trowsers made of corduroy, 



Well ink'd with black and red ; — 
The crownless hat' — ^ne'er deem'd an ill — 
It only let the sunshine still 

Repose upon my head ! 

Oh, for the riband round the neck ! 
The careless dog's ears apt to deck 

My book and collar both ! 
How can this formal man be styled 
Merely an Alexandrine child, 

A boy of larger growth ? 

Oh, for that small, small beer anew ! 

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky blue 

That wash'd my sweet meals down; 
The master even ! — and that small Turk 
That fagg'd me ! — worse is now my work: 

A fag for all the town ! 

Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart ! 
Ay, though the very birch's smart 

Should mark those hours again; 
I'd " kiss the rod," and be resign' d 
Beneath the stroke — and even find 

Some sugar in the cane ! 

Th' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed ! 
The Fairy Tales in schooltime read, 

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!— 
The angel form that always walk'd 
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd 

Exactly hke Miss Brown ! 

The " omne bene" — Christmas come! 
The prize of merit won for home — 

Merit had prizes then ! 
But now I write for days and days— 
For fame — a deal of empty praise, 

Without the silver pen ! 

Then home, sweet home ! — the crowded COach" 
The joyous shout — the loud approach^ 

The winding horns like rams' ! 
The meeting sweet that made me thrill— 
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, 

No "satis" to the "jams!" 

When that I was a tiny boy, 

My days and nights were full of joy. 

My mates were blithe and kind — 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh. 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 

To cast a look behind ! 



TOM WOODGATE. 

Tom !— are you still within this land 
Of livers — still on Hastings' sand, 

Or roaming on the waves, — 
Or has some billow o'er you roU'd, 
Jealous that earth should lap so bold 

A seaman in her graves ? 

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head 
Is sleeping on an oyster-bed — 



POEMS. 



605 



I hope 'tis far from truth I — 
With periwinkle eyes ; — your bone 
Beset with mussels, not your own, 

And corals at your tooth ! 

Oh, no — I hope the old brown eye 
Still watches ebb and flood and sky ; 

That still the old brown shoes 
Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed ! 
Your tooth still full of ocean weed, 

Or Indian — which you choose. 

I like you, Tom ! and in these lays 
Give honest worth its honest praise, 

No puflfat honour's cost; 
For though you met these words of mine, 
All letter-learning was a line 

You, somehow, never cross'd ! 

Mayhap, we ne'er shall meet again, 
Except on that Pacific main, 

Beyond this planet's brink ; — 
Yet as we erst have braved the weather. 
Still we may float a while together, 

As comrades on this ink ! 

Many a scudding gale we've had 
Together, and, my gallant lad. 

Some perils we have pass'd ; 
When huge and black the wave career'd, 
And oft the giant surge appear' d 

The master of our mast : — 

'Twas thy example taught me how 
To chmb the billow's hoary brow, 
Or cleave the raging heap — 



To bound along the ocean wild, 
With danger only as a child, 
The waters rock'd to sleep. 

Oh, who can tell that brave delight, 
To see the hissing wave in might 

Come rampant like a snake ! 
To leap his horrid crest, and feast 
One's eyes upon the briny beast. 

Left couchant in the wake ! 

The simple shepherd's love is still 
To bask upon a sunny hill, 

The herdsman roams the vale — 
With both their fancies I agree ; 
Be mine the swelling, scooping sea, 

That is both hill and dale ! 

Methinks I see the shining beach ; 
The merry waves, each after each, 

Rebounding o'er the flints ; — 
I spy the grim preventive spy ! 
The jolly boatman standing nigh ! 

The maids in morning chintz ! 

And there they float — the sailing craft ! 
The sail is up — the wind abaft — 

The ballast trim and neat. 
Alas ! 'tis all a dream — a lie ! 
A printer's imp is standing by 

To haul my mizen sheet ! 

My tiller dwindles to a pen — 
My craft is that of bookish men — 

My sale — let Longman tell ! 
Adieu, the wave ! the wind ! the spray ! 
Men — maidens — chintzes — fade away ! 

Tom Woodgate, fare thee well! 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liver- 
pool, on the 21st of September, 1793. Her father 
was Irish, and her mother German: — much of 
the romance which pervaded her character from 
earUest childhood may be traced to this mixed 
descent. Her first youth was passed among the 
mountains and valleys of North Wales ; scenes 
so fertile in sublimity and beauty produced their 
natural effects ; the earnest and continual study 
of Shakspeare led to the power of giving language 
to thought, — and before she had entered her 
thirteenth year, a printed collection of her Juve- 
nile Poems was actually before the world. From 
this period to the close of her life she continued 
to send forth volume after volume, — each sur- 
passing the other in sweetness and power: it 
seemed as if the intellectual mine was inex- 
haustible, and perhaps her last production, of any 
length, will be considered her best. She married 
early : her marriage was not a happy one. Into 
the cause of her husband's estrangement, after 
she had borne him five sons, it is not our province 
to inquire : but it is impossible not to feel that the 
circumstance contributed to produce that sadness, 
which, as an under-current, runs through all her 
works : — 

"Have I not tried, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place'?" 

She resided several years at St. Asaph, then 
removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool, and 
finally to Dublin, where she died on the 16th 
of May, 1835. 

The character of Mrs. Hemans is in beautiful 
keeping with her poetry. Like the sweetest of 
all singing birds she was often heard but rarely 
seen. After her name became familiar to every 
reader in England, she shrunk from the public 
gaze, — and, we believe, never jvisited the Metro- 
polis. We have, however, the testimony of more 
than one intimate and loving friend, that her un- 
willingness to enter general society arose from no 
unworthy disrelish for it. All her sympathies 
were in common with mankind. She is said to 
have possessed considerable beauty in youth ; but 
thought and anxiety had done the work of years, — 
and it had passed long before its time. Her form 
was exceedingly delicate ; her countenance was 
gentle, yet full of expression and intelligence ; 



and her long hair of silken auburn continued to 
the last remarkably profuse. Her manners were 
unassuming : she was reserved to strangers — ^but 
among her friends cheerful even to playfulness. 
We have heard one of the most beloved of all her 
familiar associates — a kindred spirit, also too early 
lost — speak of her with the most earnest and 
devoted affection. She described her conversa- 
tion as singularly fascinating, — full of rich poetry ; 
and Mr. Chorley, who loved her when living, 
and honoured her memory when dead, relates 
that some of her poems were printed almost 
exactly as they were spoken. 

The poetry of Mrs. Hemans will endure as 
long as the language in which it is writteii. It is 
essentially feminine. A tone of gentle, unforced, 
and persuasive goodness pervades it : it displays 
no fiery passion, and resorts to no vehement ap- 
peal ; — it touches upon nothing degraded or un- 
natural: it is often sad, but never exhibits "a 
discontented or repining spirit;" and though it 
affords continual proofs of an eager longing for a 
"better land," and a mournful consciousness 
that her "soul's lofty gifts" were insufficient 

" To quench its panting thirst for happiness ;" 

it manifests no unwillingness to bear meekly, 
patiently, and trustingly, the thousand ills that 
flesh is heir to. Few Poets, living or dead, have 
written so much, and written so well. There is 
not, indeed, one among her productions that we 
might cast from us with indifference, or ' ' willingly 
let die." Her diction is harmonious and free; 
her themes, though infinitely varied, are all hap- 
pily chosen, and treated with grace, originality, 
and judgment. Her poetry is full of images — but 
they are always natural and true : it is studded 
with ornaments — but they are never unbecoming ; 
she selected and distributed them with singular 
felicity. Though rarely energetic, she is never 
languid, — her tenderness never wearies; her 
piety' — one of the chief sources of her power and 
her success — never degenerates into bitterness, 
but is at all times fervid and humanizing. The 
poetry of Mrs. Hemans, indeed, may be likened 
to a cathedral chaunt, — deep, solemn, and im- 
pressive ; entrancing rather than exciting— and 
depressing rather than elevating the spirits of 
those whose " spirits are attentive." 



(606) 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



607 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; 

OR, 

THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF 
GRtJTLL 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

It was in the year 1308, that the Swiss rose 
against the tyranny of the Bailiffs appointed over 
them by Albert of Austria. The field called the 
Griitli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the 
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed 
upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Fiirst (the 
father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffa- 
cher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their 
place of meeting, to dehberate on the accomplish- 
ment of their projects. 

" Hither came Fiirst and Melchthal, along se- 
cret paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his 
boat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On 
the night preceding the 11th of November, 1307, 
they met here, each with ten associates, men of 
approved worth ; and while at this solemn hour 
they were wrapt in the contemplation that on their 
success depended the fate of their whole posterity, 
Werner, Walter, and Arnold held up their hands 
to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who 
has created man to an inalienable degree of free- 
dom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that 
freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath 
with awe ; and with uplifted hands attested the 
same God, and all his saints, that they were firm- 
ly bent on offering up their lives for the defence 
of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed 
on their future proceedings, and for the presem., 
each returned to his hamlet." — Planta's History 
of the Helvetic Confederacy. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they suc- 
ceeded in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and "it 
it well attested," says the same author, " that not 
one drop of blood was shed on this memorable oc- 
casion, nor had one proprietor to lament the loss 
of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The 
Swiss met on the succeeding sabbath, and once 
more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they 
fondly named it) their perpetual league." 



I. 

'TwAS night upon the Alps. — The Senn's wild 

horn. 
Like a wind's voice, had poured its last long 

tone. 
Whose pealing echoes through the larch- woods 

borne. 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks 

had gone. 
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; 
The chamois slumbered, for the chase was done ; 
■ His cavern-bed of moss the hunter prest, 
And the rock-eagle couched, high on his cloudy 

nest. 



II. 

Did the land sleep? — the woodman's axe had 

ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gathered in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hushed by the streams ; the year was in its 

wane. 
The night in its mid- watch ; it was a time 
E'en marked and hollowed into Slumber's reign. 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime. 
And o'er his white Alps moved the Spirit of the 

clime. 

III. 

For there, where snows, in crowning glory 

spread. 
High and unmarked by mortal footstep lay ; 
And there, where torrents, 'midst the ice-caves 

fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where Freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms 

of air, 
O'er cliffs the very birth-place of the day — 
Oh ! who would dream that Tyranny would dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works 

e'en there ? 

IV. 

Yet thus it was — amidst the fleet streams 

gushing 
To bring down rainbows^b'er their sparry cell. 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell, 
And the fresh pastures, where the.herd's sweet 

bell 
Recalled such life as Eastern patriarchs led ;— 
There peasant- men their free thoughts might 

not tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dr«ad, 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull, 

stealthy tread. 

V. 
But in a land of happy shepherd-homes, 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining, 
With their bright hearth-fires, 'midst the twi- 
light glooms. 
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods 

shining ; 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories laved and 

blest — , .' • 

In such a land there dwells a power combining 
The strength of many a calm, but fearless 
breast ; 
— And woe to him who breaks the sabbath of its 
rest ! 

VI. ..-; '■ 

A sound went up — the wave's dark: sleep was 

broken — 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — ,• 
Of man'sbrief course atroubled moment's tokeo 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 



608 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight-flood, 
A band of patriot-men on Griith's verdure stood. 

VII. 
They stood in arms — the wolf- spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain- 
race ; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe ? 
—Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, 
True hearts in fight, were gathered on that place 
Of secret council.— Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face ; 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 

VIII. 

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flowed, and still, from sire to son. 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring, one by one. 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. — But silent on its height. 
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light. 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 

IX. 

So were ihey roused — th' invading step had past 
Their cabin-thresholds, and the lowly door, 
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's 

blast, 
Could bar Oppression from their homes no 

more, 
—Why, what had she to do where all things 

wore 
Wild Grandeur's impress? — In the storm's free 

way, 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that winged their eagles with 

the day ? 

X. 

This might not long be borne — the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, 
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence 

fills 
Their deep lone places, and forever telling 
That He hath made man free ! — and they 

whose dwelling 
Was on those ancient fastnesses, gave ear ; 
The weight of sufferance from their hearts re- 
pelling. 
They rose — the forester, the mountaineer — 
Oh ! what hath earth more strong than the good 
peasant-spear ? 

XI. 

Sacred be Griitli's field — their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer-night. 
There, while the sons of happier lands were 

sleeping, 
Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 



Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppressed, had given their deep 

thoughts way. 
And braced their spirits for the patriot-fight, 
With lovely images of home, that lay 
Bower'd 'midst the rustling pines, or by the tor- 
rent-spray. 

XII. 

Now had endurance reached its bounds !- 

They came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye. 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name, 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the Glaciers with their joyous cny 
For the land's freedom. — 'Twas a scene com- 
bining 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky, 
The stars, the waves their softened fight en- 
shrining. 
And Man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 
shining. 

XIII. 

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low, 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene. 
With the wood's whisper, and the wave's sweet 

flow, 
Had tempered in their thoughtful hearts the glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, 
E'en thus, of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death. 

XIV. 
And three, that seemed as chieftains of the band, 
Were gathered in the midst on that lone shore 
JBy Uri's lake — a father of the land. 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days, whose shadows had passed o'er 
His path amongst the hills, and quenched the 

dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. — Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams, 
For he had walked with God, beside the mountain 

streams. 

XV. 

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone. 
As melts a wreath of snow. — But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit? — He was one. 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done, 
And reaped his harvest, and his vintage pressed, 
Fearless of wrong ; — and now, at set of sun, 
He bowed not to his years, for on the breast 
Ofa still chainless land, he deemed it much to rest. 

XVI. 

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil, 
Strong hearts endure ! — By that pale elder's 

side, 
Stood one that seemed a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride, 
Werner, the brave and true ! — If men have died. 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep. 
He was a mate for such. — The voice, that cried 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



609 



Within his breast, " Arise !" came still and deep 
From his far home, that smiled, e'en then, in 
moonlight sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for ! — as it rose, 
Through its vine-foliage sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound. 
Raised unto Heaven a glad, yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground. 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by. 
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 

XVIII. 

But who was he, that on his hunting-spear 
Leaned with a prouder and more fiery bearing? 
— His was a brow for tyrant-hearts to fear, 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. — 'Midst that 

throng, 
Of other mould he seemed, a loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along. 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song, 

XIX. 
A memory on the mountains ! — one to stand. 
When the hills echoed with the deepening swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock-defile, or savage dell, 
Array her peasant-children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains ! 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell. 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of danger flowed, as torrents to the plains. 

XX. 

There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye ; a something, born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright, 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to 

scorn ! 
It well might be l-^Young Erni's step had 

worn 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps. 
And tracked the lynx above the clouds of morn. 
And followed where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathomed glacier- 



XXI. 

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being, whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crowned heights with joy and liberty, 
And thoughts of power. — He knew each path 

which led 
To the rock's treasure caves, whose crystals 

shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. — At the tone 
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer had 

spread 
A startled wing ; for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 

77 



XXII. 

His step had tracked the waste, his soul had 

stirred 
The ancient sohtudes — his voice had told 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven. — That tale 

was heard 
In Hash's dales, and where the shepherds fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of Day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righi's cliffs ; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his 

might. 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. — There all things 

press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

passed, 
And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and 

fast, 
As the clear waters, joyously and free, 
Burst from the desert rock, it rushed, at last, 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot-three 
Thus vnth their brethren stood, beside the Forest 

Sea. 

XXIV. 

They finked their hands, — they pledged their 

stainless faith, 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven — 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to 

death, 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. — How man had striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew, 
And called upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might 

o'erthrew. 

XXV. 

They knelt, and rose in strength. — The valleys 

lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted. 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast of Freedom's echoing 

horn ! 

XXVI. 
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillness which around them hung ; 
From cliff to cliff" the avalanche descending, 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollows rung ; 
And the flame-signals through the midnight 

sprung. 
From the Surennen rocks like banners streaming 
To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 



610 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



On Griitli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 
seeming. 

XXVII. 

And the winds tossed each summit's blazing 

crest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Felled where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest, 
Heaped up the flames. The clouds grew fiery 

signs. 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crowned 

and bright. 
In Werner's dwelling flowed ; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth streamed forth the festive 

light, 
And Erni'e bhnd old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

XXVIII. 

Then, on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine, — and its bell 
Filled the hushed air awhile, with lonely sway; 
For the stream's voice was chained by Winter's 

spell. 
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. — But rock 

and dell 
Rung forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Pealed from the mountain- churches, with a 

swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea, — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps 

were free. 



» — 



SONGS OF THE CID 



The following ballads are not translations from the 
Spanish, but are founded upon some of the " wild 
and wonderful" traditions preserved in the ro- 
mances of that language, and the ancient poem of 
the Cid. 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO 
EXILE. 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar. 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent. 
From his home in good Castile he went; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
— For the noble Cid was a banished man ! 

Through bis olive-woods the morn-breeze played, 
And his native streams wild music made. 



And clear in the sunshine his vinej ards lay, 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, 
And he turned his steed for a parting look, 
For a parting look at his own fair towers ; 
— Oh ! the Exile's heart hath weary hours '. 

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed. 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed, 
It was but a moment — the halls were lone, 
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall, 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the 

door. 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor ! 

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye, 

As the voice of his native groves went by ; 

And he said — ' ' My foemen their wish have 

won — 
— Now the will of God be in all things done !" 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, 
And the winds of the morning swept off the 

tear. 
And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 
— He is gone firom the towers of his own Bivar ! 



THE CID'S DEATH-BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes. 

And steps of hurrying feet. 
Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise. 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief. 

On bright Valencia's shore, 
For death was busy with her chief. 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, 

V/ith sounds and signs of war, 
For the Cid was passing to his sleep. 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of state^ 

No weeper's aspect seen, 
But by the couch Ximena sate. 

With pale yet steadfast mien. 

Stillness was round the leader's bed, 

Warriors stood mournful nigh, 
And banners, o'er his glorious head. 

Were drooping heavily. 



• Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine. 



And feeble grew the conquering hand, 
And cold the valiant breast ; 

— He had fought the battles of the land, 
And his hour was come to rest. 



SONGS OF THE CID 



611 



What said the Ruler of the field ? 

— His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 

Hath louder accents now, 

•* Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, 

Be ye of mighty heart! 

" Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain 
From your walls ring far and shrill, 

And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grant you victory still. 

" And gird my form with mail-array, 

And set me on my steed, 
So go ye forth on your funeral-way, 

And God shall give you speed. 

"Go with the dead in the front of war, 

All armed with sword and helm, 
And march by the camp of King Bucar, 

For the good Gastihan realm. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 

Which gave my fathers birth; 
I have closed my day of battle-toil, 

And my course is done on earth." 

—Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave ! 

Through ihe lairice a wind sweeps by. 
And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave, 

Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hushed as night. 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, 
And swell out the trumpet's blast. 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 
For the noble Cid hath passed ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers. 
And lances gleamed up through her citron- 
bowers. 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain. 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind 

sweeps. 
There were spears from hills where the lion 



There were bows from sands where the ostrich 

runs, 
For the shrill horn of A fric had called her sons 
To the battles of the West. 

The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 



The stars were shining o'er tower and wave. 
And the camp lay hushed, as a wizard's cave ; 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barbed steed. 
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need. 
And they fixed the sword in his cold right hand, 
Which had fought so well for his fathers' land. 
And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls. 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls; 
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turned red. 
When the knights had girded the noble dead, 
And the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands. 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep. 
When the last through the city's gates had gone. 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone. 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went armed 

before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ; 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn. 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne. 
On the glad wind streaniing free. 

And the Campeador came stately then. 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led. 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword. 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe. 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone. 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streeta 

far, 
Not a foot-fall heard in the Alcazar, 

— So the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle- shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long. 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng J 
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career. 
It was Alvar Fanez came ! 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 



612 



FELICIA HE MANS, 



And the storm rushed down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer- Queen, with her bands lay slain, 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Lybian kings who had joined his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay. 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep. 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
— ' Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail, 
He rode in the battle's van I 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse. 
There was death in the Giant- warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed with its ghostly light. 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 
flight. 
For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red. 
As the kings and the leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to 
slay, 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Af.ic fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim-slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain ; 
— So the Cid to his g ■>■ 3 passed on ! 



THE CID'S RISING. 

'Twas the deep mid- watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay. 
When a sound went forth, in rushing might, 
Like an army on its way ! 
In the stillness of the hour, 
When the dreams of sleep have power, 
And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, 

Till the slumberer.:! woke in dread ; 
The sound of a passing armament, 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal. 
But the heavy tramp of steel. 
As a host's, to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it passed. 
And the hollow pavement rang. 

And the towers, as with a sw^eeping blast, 
Rocked to the stormy clang ! 



But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to a royal fane, 
Where a priest his night-hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble floor, 

And a voice at the gate, which said — 
" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 
Was there in his arms arrayed ; 
And that with him, from the tomb, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come. 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

" And tliey came for the buried king tnat lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 

For he must be armed on the battle-day, 

With them to deliver Spain !" 

— Then the march went sounding on, 

And the Moors, by noontide sun. 

Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



ARABELLA STUART, 



" The Lady Arabella," as she has been fre- 
quently entitled, was descended from Margaret, 
eldest daughter of Henry VH., and consequently 
allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I. 
This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune 
of her fife, as the jealousies which it constantly 
excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious 
to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the 
enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her 
heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a 
secret, but early discovered union with William 
Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed 
the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers 
were immediately placed in separate confine- 
ment. From this they found means to concert a 
romantic plan to escape ; and having won over a 
female attendant, by whose assistance she was 
disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint 
from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the 
night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where 
a boat and servants were in waiting. She em- 
barked ; and, at break of day, a French vessel, 
engaged to receive her, was discovered and gained. 
As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she 
was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor 
for him ; but this wish was overruled by her com- 
panions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted 
sail, "which," says D'Israeli, "occasioned so 
fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. 
Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower ; — 
he reachea ihe wharf, and found his confidential 
man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. 
The time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella 
was not there ; but in the distance he descried a 
vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, 
he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it 
was not the French ship charged with his Ara- 
bella; in despair and confusion he found another 
ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



613 



altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." — 
Arabella, meantime, while imploring her attend- 
ants to hnger, and earnestly looking out for the 
expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in 
Calais Roads by a vessel in the King's service, 
and brought back to a captivity, under the suffer- 
ing of which her mind and constitution gradually 
sank " What passed in that dreadful imprison- 
ment, can not perhaps be recovered for authentic 
history, — but enough is known ; that her mind 
grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, 
and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, 
that it was only terminated by her death. Some 
effusions, often begun and never ended, written 
and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain 
among her papers." — D'' Israeli s Curiosities of 

Literafiire. The following poem, meant as 

some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctua- 
tions of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to 
commence during the time of her first imprison- 
ment, while her mind was yet buoyed up by the 
consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the 
cherished hope of eventual deliverance. 



And is not love in vain, 
Torture enough without a living tomb? 

Byron. 

Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto. 

Pindemonte. 



'TwAS but a dream ! — I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs where early birds were 
singing, 
I stood, o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree. 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
F&T through a royal forest ; then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook. 
And lilies quivered by the glade's lone brook. 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear. 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by, 
Save one — 1 met tne smile o^ one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. — Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train. 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array. 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted. 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power. 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless- 
hearted. 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, 
Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'Tis past ! — I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering for thy sake, 
A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 



And feehng still my woman's spirit strong, 

In the deep faith which hfts from earthly wrong, 

A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love. 

Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 

By its undying fervour ; and prevail. 

Sending a breath, as of the spring's tirst gale, 

Thro' hearts now cold; and, raising its bright 

face. 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chilled and bhghted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet. 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

And thou too art in bonds ! — yet droop thou not,, 
Oh, my beloved ! — there is one hopeless lot. 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of lights 
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, — 
If thy deep-thriUing voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now. 
Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world, — oh ! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear on ? — thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou'rt: 

mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine^ 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall 

burn. 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning. 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watched in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings as of heaven. — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. — To think of such an hour! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Bore down and perishing by noontide's kiss? 
Yet shall I fear that lot ? — the perfect rest. 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 
After long-suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes, 

V. 
Sunset ! — I tell each moment — from the skies 

The last red splendour floats along my wall. 
Like a king's banner ! — Now it melts, it dies I 

I see one star — I hear — 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbbed to© 

soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her bean* 
Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove, 
May breathe from terror. 



614 



FELICIA HEMANS; 



Now the night grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat.— Hark ! a bell's slow chime, 
My heart strikes with it.— Yet again— 'tis time ! 
A step ! — a voice !— or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come, to meet thee on the seas. 
**** **** 

VI. 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! — the hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice withiti me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles, and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. — All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, e'en as we must be. 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain— in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. — Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : It drew neai?. 
Fraught with our foes ! — What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 
thee : 
And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 
That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath 
around thee ; 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 

My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away. 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the 

while. 
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; Summer, with her smile, 
Fills the green forest ; — young hearts breathe 

their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; Hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world ! — These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path — On o7ie alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer, 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 

VIIL 

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! 
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 
, O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers. 
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 
bent. 



Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath 

been, 
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. — My soul grows 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream , — the green, the 

free, 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from me I 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things 1 

With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 
And by_ the streams ; but I — the blood of kings, 

A proud, unmingling river, through my veins 

Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are 
chains ! 

Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bhss, 

Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 

I am cast under their triumphal car. 

An insect to be crushed. — Oh ! Heaven is far, — 

Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong affection, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these things 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh ! 

thou. 
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! — through the silent night, ev'rf 

now, 
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Stil! first for thee. — Oh ! gentle, gentle friend! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid ? — the voice of 

blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! — is there not aery, 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony. 
To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! hear me ! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun, 
Have heavier cause ! — yet hear ! — my soul grows 

dark — 
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown. 
Its freight of human hearts ? — th' o'ermastering 

wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save ? 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is 

poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! — a magic 



Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



615 



Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and 

hall ;— 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, — 
Thine ! — What dost thou amidst the bright and 

fair. 
Whispering light words, and mocking my des- 
pair? 
It is not well of thee ! — my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought 

explore. 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying. 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying ; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green 

leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death ! — what, is death a locked and treasured 

thing. 
Guarded by swords of fire ? a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, Hea- 
ven ! control 
These thoughts — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray, 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled, 
Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst 
sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish 
filled. 
For human life too fearftilly profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child. 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world poured, 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With Thy strong arm nomore ? Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home : no breeze 
flits by. 
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart. 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness. 
Thee, its first love ! — oh ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun. 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on Jhy noble head. 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 



I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness ! Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above. 
Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! — Farew. k I and yet once more, 
Farewell ! — the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, — but the woe 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell— 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet — Farewell! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.* 



Fear! — I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death 1 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedoml 



I will not live degraded. 



Sardanapalug. 



Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; — 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flashed out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone ; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil , 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Tho' clear as a flower which the light looKS 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high. 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 
Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 
She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 
She turned — and her mother's gaze brought back 
Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 
Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears, 
Flow to the dream of her early years ! 



* Founded on a circumstance related in the Second 
Series of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming 
part of a picture in the ^^ Painted Biography" thera 
described. 



616 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father' shall; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In Ms that waited her dawning smile, 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow ofji plaintive lay. 



THE bride's farewell. 

Why do I weep ? — to leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend, — 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here. 

Oh, therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! we have played 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore. 

In song, in prayer, in sleep. 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune. 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep. 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled— 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast. 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest ■ 

Still changeless, — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain. 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love hke yours again? 

Sweet mother ! let me weep ! 



And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring. 
That works its way through the torrent's foam, 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 

It is well! — the cloud, on her soul that lay. 
Hath melted in gUttering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She 'urns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 



Mother ! on earth it must still be so. 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng. 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' 

gleam. 
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-veined violet's bed ; 
They have light leaves around them, blue skies 

above, 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 

II. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depth of a Grecian wood, 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed. 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark fohage glowed. 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river ; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned. 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound. 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay, 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain. 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride. 
And the guests were met by that fountain-side ; 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face. 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace. 
With lips of love, and a brow serene, 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. — 
Bring wine, bring odours! — the board is spread- 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head! 
The wine-cups foamed, and the rose wasshowered 
On the young and fair from the world embowered, 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
But there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! — was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore ? 
Silence ! — did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet? — 
Fhng down the goblet, and draw the sword! 
The groves are filled with a pirate -horde! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ; — 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youth from the banquet to battle sprang, 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang ; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards and darkening 

brows. 
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly ! — 
She saw but lanthis before her He, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN.- 



617 



With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 
Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe, 
And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 
1'hat sought his young bride out mournfully. — 
She knelt down beside him, her arms she 

wound, 
Lik^ tendrils, his drooping neck around, 
As if the passion of that fond grasp 
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 
But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 
The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there; 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain. 
And a hush of fear through the summer-grove,— 
So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

III. 
Gloomy lay the shore that night. 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill, — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke, the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal woe. 
In its changes wild or low. 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose. 
As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing on th' Egean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
Oh ! was the spoilers' vessel nigh ? 
Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep. 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep. 
On a sea of molten silver dark. 
Brooding it frowned that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast. 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast. 
And the heavy soimd of its flapping sail. 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hushed was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? — the waves tremble ! what piercing cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 
What Hght through the heavens, in a sudden 

spire. 
Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, 
And the dashing of water, — but fruitless all ! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake. 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 
It hath touched the sails, and their canvass rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in air, 
And reddened the stars with its wavy glare, 
And sent out bright arrows, and soared in glee, 
To a burning mount midst the moonhght sea. 
The swimmers are plunging from stern and 

prow — 
Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 
The slave and his master alike are gone. — 
Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 
78 



The child of thy bosom ! — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare, 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might, 
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught,— 
Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought ? 
Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smile 
It was her's ! — She hath kindled her funeral pile ! 
Never might shame on that bright head be. 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her 
free. 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasped, 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasped, 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bowed. 
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud. 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move-— 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love ! 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 



Wekneu Stauffacher, one of the three confe- 
derates of the field of Griitli, had been alarmed by 
the envy with which the Austrian Bailifl", Lan- 
denberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and 
comfort which dislinguished his dwelling. It was 
not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his 
wife, a woman who seems to have been of an he- 
roic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with 
his friends upon the measures by which Switzer- 
land was finally delivered. 



Nor look nor tone revealeth aught; 

Save women's quietness of thought; 

And yet around her is a light 

Of inward majesty and might. M. J. J. 

******* 

War soleh ein herz an seinen Biisen druckt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. 

WMlholm Till. 



It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still. 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by, 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touched with the crimson of the dying hour, 

Which lit hs low roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bower; 



618 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 
Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree, 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Even as nn.an sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him, — sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; — he marked it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot. 

But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy, 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee. 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look. 

Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and 
said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its 

prey. 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away ? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Markest thou the wonder on thy boy's fair 
brow. 
Missing the smile from thine ? Oh ! cheer thee ! 
bend 
To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He looked up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosened from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveiled by love's o'ermastering hand. 

"Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on 
high 

The white Alps gUttered through the solemn sk^: 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couched by forest-rills, 
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear. 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ?" 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's 
cheek ; 
Back on the linden-stem she leaned her form. 



And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp string, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmy loving and beloved. 
And timid in her happiness the while. 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour, 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light. 
And took her fair child to her holy breast. 

And hfted her soft voice, that gathered might 
As it found language: — "Are we thus op" 
pressed ? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod. 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

"I know what thou wouldst do, — and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! — this, thy 
son, 
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be 
free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 
earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now hft once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all but seeing thee subdued, — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois-paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave' hearts that midst the hamlets 
glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Away 1 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, — I can pray !" 

He sprang up hke a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, — 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die, 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell. 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps — Farewell!" 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 
i In the clear starlight ; he, the strength to 

rouse 
j Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
} To rock her child beneath the whispering 

boughs 
Singing its blue, half-curtained eyes to sleep, 
I With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



619 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 



Profekzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor 
of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry 
and music, died in consequence of an unrequited 
attachment. — A painting by Ducis, representsher 
showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, 
to a Roman Knight, the object of her affection, 
who regards it with indifference. 



Tell me no more, no more 

Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its burden of affections t I depart, 
Unknown, though Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious. 



I. 

One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. — Yet one more 

dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart I For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be. 
Thou, loved so vainly I I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind. 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone. 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection ;^something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear. 
And fervent song, that gushed Vv'hen none were 

near. 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, — 

While thou Awake! not yet within me die. 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, — my spirit, wake 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake. 

Live ." in thy work breathe out ! — that he may yet 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

IL 

It comes — the power 
Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : — they throng — they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, — 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine 



Through the pale marble's veins. It grows — and 

now ■' 
I give ray own hfe's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments; but oh ! more fair, 
Touched into loveher being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am passed away. Thou art the mould, 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief! Oh ! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet and low. 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigba 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear. 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, — to rise, to swell; 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose floW 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 

III. 

Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

It can not make thee ! Oh ! I might have givea 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe ot 

spring. 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain,— 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-hke echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee. 
Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give tho 
reed 
From storms a shelter, give the droopine vine 
Something round which its tendrils may en- 
twine, — 
Give the parched flower a rain-drop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it asked ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art. 
Once beat for praise ! — Are those high longings 

o'er? 
That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never, oh ! never more ; though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, 



630 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams ; 
Never, oh ! never more ! Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose hfe is all within, too soon and well, 
When there the bUght hath settled ;— but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain. 
The inward burning of those words — " m vain," 

Seared on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven. 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, — who knowest not what was 

given 
Inthat devotedness, — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky 
Speaking not, feehngbut that thou wert nigh ; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 
To listen silently ; — with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 
This had been joy enough ; — and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking hfe and 

power, 
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! — Dreams, dreams ! — the 
fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hushed — awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me : — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
Heave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — " 'Twas her''s who loved me 
well .'" 



This fixed and sacied hold. In thy dark prison-house. 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
Yea, on the scaffold, if needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. 

Joanna SailUe. 



GERTRUDE; 

OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 



The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it 
is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the as- 
sassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound 
alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife 
Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, 
■with the most heroic devotedness. Her own suf- 
ferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, 
are most affectingly described in a letter which 
she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and 
which was pubhshed some'years ago, at Haarlem, 
in a book entitled " Gertrude Von Der Wart, or 
Fidelity unto Death." 



Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrihle the storm that gathers o'er us; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 



Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

"And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side, 

Peace, peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for ?we to fear, 

When death is on thy brow ? 
The world ! what means it ? — mine is Aere— 

I will not leave thee now. 

' ' I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's Hving power 

To strengthen me through this! 
And thou, mine honoured love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh I with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony. 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear: 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low. 

Had stilled his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his hps with dew. 
And on his cheeks such kisses pressed 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye. Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit passed. 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot. 
And, weeping, blessed the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 



RECORDS OF WOMAN 



631 



IMELD A. 



Sometimes 

The young forget the lessons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate,— like thee, Iinelda ! 

Italy, a Poem. 



Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma. 



Tasso. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here, 

Ainidst the fallen pillars ; — this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells. 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar ! — that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death ; 
Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops — but not of rain — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed, 
And the pale shining water-Uly's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 

One whom she loved, by this lone temple's 

spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle 

pair. 
With the blue heaven of Italy above. 
And citron-odours dying on the air, 

And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. — What recked their souls 

of strife 
Between their fathers? Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, 

that hour, 
Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and 

flower. 
And star, just gleaming through t'ne cypress 

boughs, 
Seemed holy things, as records of their vows. 

But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying 
tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she 

caught — 
Was it the clash of sw-^rds ? — a swift dark thought 

Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it passed. 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more. 
She stilled her heart to listen, — all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda' s voice was in the song, 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng, 



Peophng her father's halls. That fatal night 

Her eye looked starry in its dazzling light, 

And her cheek glowed with beauty's flushing 

dyes. 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Followed her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze, 
And marvelled at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue. 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance. 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest. 
Comes not unmasked. Howe'er this were, the 

time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Ahke : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft. 
When trembling stars looked silvery in their wane, 
And heavy flowers, yet slumbered, once again' 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and hght, and lone, 
Through the dim cedar shade ; the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled. 
Of one that panted with some secret dread : — 
What did Imelda there ? She sought the scene 
Where love so late with youth and hope had been ; 
Bodings were on her soul — a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 
Met her with melody — sweet sounds and low; 
We hear them yet, they live along its flow — 
Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 
She gained — the wave flashed forth — 'twas darkly 

dyed 
E'en as from warrior-hearts ; and on its edge, 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts 
deep. 
There lay, as lulled by stream and rustling sedge, 

A youth, a graceful youth. "Oh! dost thou 
sleep 
Azzo !" she cried, " my Azzo ! is this rest ?" 
But then her low tones faltered : — " On thy breast 
Is the stain, — yes, 'tis blood! — and that cold 

cheek — 
That moveless lip ! — thou dost not slumber ?— 



Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! — no sound — no breath! 
What hath come thus between our spirits ? — 

Death ! 
Death? — I but dream — I dream?" — and there 

she stood, 
A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustained by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shivering by the 

stream, — 
Her brother's sword ! — she knew it ; and she knew 
' Twas with a venomed point that weapon slew ! 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. There 

came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame, 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her hair floating round. 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and pressed 
Her hps of glowing life to Azzo's breast. 



FELICIA HEMANS 



63a _ 

Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! \ Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! — : Which filled her soul was strong to cast out fear, 
So the moon saw them last. And by its might upborne all else above, 

The morn came singing She shrank not — marked not that the dead were 

Through the green forest of the Appenines, near. 

With all herjoyous birds their free flight swinging, | Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

And steps and voices out among the vines. I Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
What found that day-spring here ? Two fair forms Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

laid While heavily she felt his life-blood well 

Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade | Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 



Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 

Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave ? 
Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl. 
Decked as for bridal hours ! — long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light ; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining ; 

And her pale graceful arms— how sadly bright ? 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. — 
But she died first ! — the voilet's hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eye-lids with repose oppressed. 
She had bowed heavily her gentle head, 

And, on the youth' s hush' d bosom , sunk to rest. 
So slept they well ! — the poison's work was done ; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death had 
won. 



EDITH; 



A TALE OF THE WOODS.* 



Da Heilige ! rufe dein Kind zuriick ! 
Ich habe genossen das irdische Gliick, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 

Wallenstein. 



The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great Western World, when day de- 
clines. 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines ; 1 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood. 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there 

sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismayed ; while sank the crimson light. 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate : though many lay around. 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were severed from her need and from her woe. 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low. 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 



* Founded on incidents related in an American 
work, " Sketches of Connecticut." 



With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
Yet hoped, still hoped! — Oh! from such hope 
how long 
Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
E'en when the pressure of dismay grows strong. 
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er 
believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bowed she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight 

down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fire-flies, kindhng up the leafy-place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. 
Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye 
The eye that faded looked through gathering 
haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not : that fond sad meaning 

passed — 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard, — and mute she lay, 
And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death! 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and 

dew; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

played. 
Bright- coloured birds with splendour crossed the 

shade , 
Flitting on flower-Uke wings ; glad murmurs 
broke 
From reed, and sprayj and leaf, the living 
strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless 

trance, 
The widowed Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange. 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, ev'n as memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now, — 
Where was she ? Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home looked sad — for therein played no 
child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



633 



To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 

Won by a form so desolately fair, 

Or touched with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by. 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 

And leaning on his bow. 

And life returned, 
Life, but with all. its memories of the dead. 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learned 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore. 
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too 

soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seemed parents. Oh ! the joy ! 
The rich, deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, 
On something all its own ! — that kindly glow. 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 
When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle 

cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus : — her spirit dwelt, the while, 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; — yet still she prayed, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Linked unto moments when the heart was stirred. 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and 

dim. 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with child-like piety. 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Poured out on her so freely. — Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds : by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the sunbeam through : — her voice was 

made 
Ev'n such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 
spread 



O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touched into golden bronze the cypress-bough. 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath lime 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
— Now might she pass in hope, her work was 

done. 
And she was passing from the woods away ; 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 
Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had 

come. 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake : 
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blignts of changeful 

time. 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms. 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day. 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play. 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin- 
door, 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" — to the gray-haired chief she 

spoke — 
" Know'st thou that I depart?" — "I know, I 

know," 
He answered mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter!" — "Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother !" with meek smiles once 
more 
She murmured in low tones ; " one happy lot 
Awaits, us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own. 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, hsping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned, — the Sa- 
viour's prayer 
Which now ye know, — and 1 shall meet you 

there. 
Father, and gentle mother ! — ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." — From the matron's eye, 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep. 
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And manthng up his stately head in woe, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior 

old, 
In soun ds like those by plaintive waters rolled. 



624 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away ; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 

Daughter ' thou canst not stay. 

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill. 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shall see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 

And the wind's wild moanings by, 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget. 

Midst flowers — not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shalt melt 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim v.ill our cabin be, and lone. 

When thou, its light, art fled; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land !" 

The song had ceased — the listeners caught no 

breath, 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY.* 



What deep wounds ever closed without a scar 1 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it. 

Childe Harold. 



I. 

Royal in splendour went down the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay, 
With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 
Red as if fused in the burning sky. 



* From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs. 



And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillared vaults of the Banian stood. 

Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood, 

And the plantain ghitered with leaves of gold, 

As a tree midst the genii-gardens old, 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last houra 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on then- crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirred ; 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, 

Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; 
He gazed where the stately city rose 
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose ; 
He turned where birds through the gorgeous gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume; 
He tracked the brink of the shining lake, 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake, 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind. 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast, 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 
For the stag athirsi from the noontide chase, 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wild blue sky, 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye. 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave ; 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white. 
O'er the glossy leaves in his young dehght. 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother looked from her tent the while. 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane. 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim-train. 

Calmly to Unger a few brief hours. 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers ; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, 

The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 

II. 

The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven; 
The boy from the high-arched vv^oods came back — 
Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track ? 



RECORDS OF WOMAN, 



635 



The serpent's glance, through the long reeds 

bright 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No ! — yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soiled and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye, 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die ! 
He looked for the face to his young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

" Speak to me ! — whence doth the swift blood 

run ? 
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son?" 
The mist of death on his brow lay pale. 
But his voice just lingered to breathe the tale, 
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 
And wounds from the children of Brahma born : 
This was the doom for a Moslem found 
With foot profane on their holy ground, 
This was for sullying the pure waves free 
Unto them alone — 'twas their God's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

The mother shrieked not then, nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood. 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood ; 

But it rushed like a river which none may stay. 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would cham, 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain. 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold. 

Clasped to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had passed ! 

Are there no words for that common woe ? 
— Ask of the thousands, its depth that know ! 
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest, 
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 
He had stood, when she sorrowed beside her knee, 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 
He had kissed from her cheek the widow'stears, 
With the loving lip of his infant years ; 
He had smiled o'er her path Uke a bright spring- 
day — 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Murdered ! — Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 

She bowed down mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round her watched in dread ; 
They watched — she knew not they were by — 
Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 
On the silent lip she pressed no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this ; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low, 
G'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ; 
She looked but into the half-shut eye. 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might ! 

And what deep change, what work of power, 
Was wrought on-her secret soul that hour ? 
How rose the lonely one ? — She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 
And proudly flung from her face the veil, 
\nd shook the hair from her forehead pale, 
79 • 



And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood. 

With the sudden glance of dauntless mood. 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high. 

With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 

The blood-stained robe to her heaving breast, 

And said — " Not yet — not yet I weep, 

Nor yet my spirit shall sink or sleep. 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

— Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of death she turned, 

The strength of her step was the heart that 

burned ; 
And the Brarnin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother passed with her slaughtered child. 

in. 

Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods round the Indian city borne, 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flash' d through the plantain 

shade 
As the light of the lances along it played ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay, Uke a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a M^ounded heart. 
— Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had passed, 
And her tale had rung hke a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips poured, 
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear. 
And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came, 
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame j 
She came in the might of a queenly foe. 
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow; 
But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
There sought the warrior his star of fate ; 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign, 
And the faintest tone from her lips was caught, 
As a Sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! — the gift of grief, 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless ! — ^it can not fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie. 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown, 
As a king in death might reject his crown ; 



626 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



Slowly the strength of the walls gave way — 
She withered faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that bannered plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul was vain : 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born. 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride. 

As on that eve when the fair boy died ; 

She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 

O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 

She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 

Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. 

She murmured a low sweet cradle song, 

Strange midst the din of a warrior throng, 

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 

Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek ; 

But something which breathed from that mournful 

strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again. 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried— 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there our 

grave." 

And the temples fell, though the spirit passed, 
That stayed not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr-dead. 
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed. 
Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar 

steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol-fanes, 
And the streams glowed red, as from warrior- 
veins. 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey. 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade, 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left. 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair. 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE 
RHONE. 



There is but one place in the world, 

Thither where he lies buried ! 
******* 
There, there is all that still remains of him, 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

Coleridge's Wallenstein. 
Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert. Childe Harold. 



There went a warrior's funeral through the night, 

A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 

Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 

From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 



Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof 's tread 
In mufiied sounds upon the greensward fell. 
As chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver. 

Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of one, 
Oh ! who shall speak ? What words Ais brow un- 
veil ? 
A father following to the' grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow, 
Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly 
train. 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low, 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached the 
lone 
Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thich archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddering through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument. 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer slept, 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line. 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine : 
So the sad rite was closed. — The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave. 
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield.— Then all was done, 
All still, around the dead. — His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flowed, and hearts 
were stirred 
By some old song, or tale of battle won, 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. — Ev'n thus life's rushing 

tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void place 
Filled up so soon ! — so like a summer-cloud, 
All that we love to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? — not of all ! — the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud hp ere while. 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep. 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
I The pomps of kindred sorrow. — Day by day, 
On Aymer' s tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, 
i Through the dim fane soft summer-odours 

breathing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



627 



And with a flush of deeper brilhance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and lowly, 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair, 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose hght hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, 
To blush through every season ? — Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, 
For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed. 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm. 
Even through mid-winter, filled the solitude 

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness ! 

One spring- morn rose, 

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 
laid— 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon — a dark-haired peasant 
maid : 
Who could reveal her story ? — TJiat still face 

Had once been fair ; for on the clear arched brow 
And the curved lip there hngered yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight ? — Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the. high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! — She grasped a 

wreath — 
The tomb's last garland ! — This was love in death! 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH 
SONG. 



An Indian woman, driven to despair by her 
husband's desertion of her for another wife, en- 
tered a canoe with her children, and rowed it 
down the Mississippi toward a cataract. Her 
voice was heard from the shore singing a mourn- 
ful death-song, until overpowered by the sound 
of the waters in which she perished. The tale is 
related in Long's Expedition to the source of St. 
Peter's River. 



Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur bris^. 11 faut 
que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits 
libres de i'air. 

Bride o/JWessJno.— Translated by Mde. de Stael. 

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of 
a woman. The Prairie. 



Down a broad river of the western wilds. 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 



Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. — Yet within, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart. 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death. 

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty 

stream and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, roll ! and bear our lives 

with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have tossed, would 

seek the sunshine's calm. 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to 

the woods of balm. 

Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath looked upon 

another's face. 
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 

moonbeam's trace ; 
My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper 

to his dream. 
He flings away the broken reed — roll swifter yet, 

thou stream ! 

The voice that spoke of other days is hushed 

within Ids breast. 
But mive its lonely music haunts, and will not let 

me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 

is gone, 
I can not live without that light — Father of waves I 

roll on ! 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 
from the chase ? 

The heart of love that made his home an ever 
sunny place ? 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
decked his couch of yore ? 

He will not ! — roll, dark foaming stream, on la- 
the better shore ! 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that' 
bright land must flow. 

Whose waters from my soul may have the me- 
mory of this woe ; 

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 
breath may waft away 

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness ot 
the day. 

And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot, 
Smile ! — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! 1 

leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art tliou to pine in aching love 

away. 
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn ! froiD 

sorrow and decay. 



628 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none 

are heard to weep, 
And where th' unkmd one hath no power^ again 

to trouble sleep ; 
And where the soul shall find its youth, as 

wakening from a dream, — 
One moment, and that realm is ours— On, on, 

dark rolling stream 1 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 



Jeanne d' Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons 
quelques amis de son enfance. Una joie plus in- 
effable encore I'attendait a Rheims, au sein de son 
triomphe : Jacques d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, 
aussitot que de troupes- de Charles VII. y furent 
entrees ; et comme les deux freres de notre He- 
roine I'avaient accompagnes, elle se vit, pour un 
instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un 
pere vertueux. — Vie de Jea?me d'Arc. 



Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me— a woman— bring 
Bweet waters from affection's spring. 



•■That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ?— within, the light 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 
flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight, 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bow- 
ing 
In martial vassalage ! — while midst that ring, 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 
hymn 

Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim. 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
Arid unapproached, beside the altar-stone. 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine stream- 
ing. 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming. 
Silent and radiant stood ? — the helm was raised. 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed, 

Intensely worshipping: — a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! — Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 

Vet glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured virgin, with her smile of love, 



Seemed bending o'er her rotaress. — That slight 

form ! 
Was that the leader through the battle-storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye. 
Guided the warrior where the swords flashed 

high? 
'Twas so, even so ! — and thou, the shepherd's 

child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown. 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransomed tor France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken. 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing 

sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue 

skies, 
Daughter of victory ! — a triumphant strain, ^ 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies. 

Gushed through the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. — Then rose a nation's 

sound — 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Men give to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! — The shouts that 

filled 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. — "Joanne!— 

Who spoke 
Like those whose childhood with her childhood 

grew 
Under one roof? — "Joanne I" — that murmur 

broke 
With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turned- 
she knew 
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 
The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
" Father ! and ye, my brothers !" — On the breast 
Of that grey sire she sank^and swiftly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flowed. — She saw the pomp no 

more — 
The plumes, the banners :— to her cabin-door, 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. 
Where her young sisters by her side had played. 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose. 
Her spirit turned. — The very wood-note, sung 
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves 

hung, 
Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 
Winning her back to nature. — She unbound 
The helm of many battles from her head, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



629 



And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the 
ground, 
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
" Bless me, my father, bless me ! and with thee. 
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree. 
Let me return !" 

Oh ! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! — too much of fame 
Had shed it radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all it loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 



To die for what we love '. — Ob ! there is power 

In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this ; 

It is to live without the vanished light 

That strength is needed. 

Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde. 

Tasso. 



Along the star-lit Seine went music swelling, 
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dweUing 
For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

For in a palace of the land that night. 
Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 
hung. 

And from the painted walls a stream of light 
On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung : 

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 

Was one, the lady from the Danube-side. 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! — though now no more 
Her clear eye flashed with youth's all tameless 
glee. 

Yet something holier than its day-spring wore, 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 

A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught— 

The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair. 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky, 

Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair. 
As her young daughter in the dance went by, 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 

Midst the light laughter of festivity : 
Whence come those tones ! — Alas ! enough we 

know. 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the echoing hall? 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call? 



Silence ! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a 

sound, 
A strange quick rustling which their notes had 

drowned 1 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaJiing — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had 
shed 
From the gay dream of revelry awaking. 

One moment holds them still in breathless 
dread ; 
The wild fierce lustre grows — then bursts a cry — 
Fire ! through the hall and round it gathering — fly ! 

And forth they rush — as chased by sword and 
spear — 
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers ; 
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear. 

Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven- 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauhne? — the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child — but no sweet voice rephes. 

"Bertha ! where art thou ?— Speak, oh ! speak, 
my own '." 
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while, 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone. 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile ; 
A young bright form, decked gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh ! thy strength, deep love ! — there is no 
power 

To stay the mother from that rolling grave. 
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 

And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave ; 
Back, back she rushes through a host combined- 
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise, 

None ! — Courage there stood still — and never 
more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes i 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 

And died they heart to heart ? — Oh ! who can tell ? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On that sad palace, midst its pleasure -shades ; 

Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 

But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths were 
bound ! — 

Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around. 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ? 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone ! 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 



FELICIA HEMANb, 



630 

And they were all !— the tender and the true { " They told me this was death, but well I knew 

Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, j it could not be ; 

Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly , Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke ol 
a^^ ! death for thee ? 



To deep, lone, chastened thoughts of grief and 
love. 
Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe ! 



JUANA 



JuANA, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon 
the death of her husband, Philip the handsome, of 
Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, 
had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magni- 
ficent dress, and being possessed with the idea 
that it would revive, watched it for a length of 
time incessantly, waiting for the moment of re- 
turning life. 



It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the gravel 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 



The night-wind shook the tapestry round an 
ancient palace-room, 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through 
the gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful 
gleams and red. 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see. 
Like a hunter, or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly gUttering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watched by the 
cold slumberer's side. 

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

■Only her full impassioned eyes as o'er that clay 
she bent, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

.And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent gloom of death, the dreamer 

spoke aloud ; 
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake. 
And learn my watehings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 



They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around. 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crowned ! 

" Whh all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath. 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said 

that this was death ? 
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness 

round thee long, 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undim- 

med and strong. 

"I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee, 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a 
hght of glee 1 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold un- 
smiling cheek. 

Oh! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 

" But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord'. 

and hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed 

and wept ; 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past. 
Surely that humble, patient love, must win back 

love at last ! 

" And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shall 

be the sunny smile. 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me 

erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
Oh ! years of hope deferred were paid by one 

fond glance of thine ! 

" Thou' It meet me in that radiant look when thou 

comest from the chase, 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give 

me loveliness. 

"But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of 

thy voice : 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone. 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured 

forth day by day. 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



631 



Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er 

every grace, 
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the 
watcher's breast, 

And they bore away the royal dead with re- 
quiems to his rest, 

With banners and with knightly plumes all wav- 
ing in the wind — 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 
despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST 
GIRL. 



A fearful gift upon thy heart Is laid, 
Woman!— a power to suffer and to love. 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 



Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonhght forests broke ; — 
"Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," — 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair- haired youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son; though from his cheek had 
flown 
The mantling crimson of the island-blood, 
And his pressed lips looked marble. — Fiercely 

bright. 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face: — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befel. 
Known but to heaven that hour ? — Perchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought. 
That its full image pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnum drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her "Good-night," might breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! — 
He started and looked up : — thick cypress boughs 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly 
red 
In the broad stormy firelight: — savage brows. 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 



Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dungeon 
bars'. 



Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom— 
Oh i what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! — Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ? — Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests ? — To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young sol- 
dier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — the fondly reared, — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! — And fettered there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. — Hush ! hark ! — a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ?— 
A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savannas and the leafy wild. 
Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long. 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour swayed, 
Ev'n to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arm to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, "He shall not 
die!" 

" He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrilled 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 

stilled. 
Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed, — their dark souls bowed before the 

maid. 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew. 
Something o'ermastered them from that young 

mien — 
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen; 
And seeming, to their child-like faith; a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's 

breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypress 

tree ; 
"Away," they cried, '-' young stranger, thou art 

free!" 



COSTANZA. 



-Art thou then desolate ■? 



Of friends, of hopes forsaken ■? — Come to me ! 
I am thine own. — Have trusted hearts proved false 1 
Flatterers deceived thee f Wanderer como to me ! 
Why didst thou ever leave me I Know'st thou aH 



632 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



I would have borne, andcall'd it joy to bear, 

For thy sake'? Know'st thou that thy voice had power 

To shake me with a thrill of happiness 

By one kind tone V-to fill mine eyes with tears 

Of yearning love'! And thou— oh! thou didst throw 

That crushed affection back upon my heart ;— 

Yet come to me ! — it died not 



She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stained window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, 
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold — the autumn forest's hue — 
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head. 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky. 
What solemn fervour lived ! And yet what woe. 
Lay like some buried thing, till seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh ! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chastened heart to feel. 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years. 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and 

made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, hke sounds in 

dreams, 
Music for weary hearts ! Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed, 
-Came, and brought hope; while scarce of mortal 

birth 
He deemed the pale fair form, that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling 
well, 
And a sweet ■voice, of rich, yet mournful tone, 
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there 
Costanza hfted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Other and wider sounds in tumult met 
The floating song. Strange sounds ! — the trum- 
pet's peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel. 
The rallying war-cry. — In the mountain-pass. 
There had been combat : blood was on the grass. 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying. 
And the pine-branches crashed before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza' s home : — there entered hurrying feet. 



Dark looks of shame and sorrow ; mail-clad men, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen. 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword. 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him ; then for 

flight, 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 
Sped breathlessly again. — They passed — but he. 
The stateliest of a host — alas ! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden crest 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast — 
Some costly love-gift — rent : — but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven-locks — the breeze 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers. 
Might scarcely hft them — steeped in bloody 

showers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung ! the eye's dark 

ray — 
Where was it ? — and the lips ! — they gasped apart, 
With their hght curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue — 
Was it not death's ? — that stillness — that cold dew 
On the scarred forehead ? No i his spirit broke 
I From its deep trance ere long, yet'but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
; By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken. 
The haughty chief of thousands — the forsaken 
Of all save one ! — She fled not. Day by day- 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, un- 
known, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong 

man's raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the Hght veiled form 
Still hovering nigh ; yet sometimes, when that 
storm 
Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As aj^oung mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would soothe him with sweet ayes, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams, 
And feebly hfting, as a child, his head. 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmured forth, " Where am I ? What soft 

strain 
Passed, like a breeze, across my burning brain? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she now ? and where the gauds of pride 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side ? 
All lost I — and this is death ! — I can not die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardoned I depart !" 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN 



633 



And stood before him with a smile — oh ! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear — 
And said, " Cesario ! loolt on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven' s alone — and Heaven is just ! 
I bless thee — be at peace !" 

But o'er hie frame 
Too fast the strong tide rushed — the sudden 

shame, 
The joy, th' amaze ! — he bowed his head — it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love still perfect, gave him refuge there, — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE. 



Who should it be •?— Where shouldst thou look for 

kindness "? 
When we are sick where can we turn for succour, 
When we are wretched where can we complain ; 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With such sure confidence as to a mother t 

Joanna Baillie. 



" My child, my child, thou leav'st me ! — I shall 

hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance ; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy " Good-night" at parting for repose. 
Under the vine -leaves I shall sit alone, 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea. 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of 

France, 
Fading to air. — Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe 
From thy young heart be far ! — And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be- with me. — Now farewell, farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
Whefi thou wert pillowed there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : — these moments are gone 

by, 
Thou too must go, my flower ! — Yet with thee 

dwell 
The peace of God ! — One, one more gaze — fare- 
well !" 
This was a mother's parting with her child, 
A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled. 
And wooed her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delay 
She hngered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose-leaves 
float, 

80 



And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept. 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day, 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song, 
Breathing of home : through stillness heard afar 
And duly rising with the first pale star. 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were passed. 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful 

world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. — Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant hnes efface. 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 

tears. 
That home was darkened soon: the summer 

breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the 

seas. 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn ! 
To her, that widowed in her marriage -morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side, 
By the close veil of misery !'— -Oh ! but ill. 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young 

high heart 
Bears its first blow ! — it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still. 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future 

hours 
To send no busy dream ! — Sie had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned, 
In weariness from life : then camje th' unrest. 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast. 
The haunting sounds of voices far away. 
And household steps ; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blucrrushing streams 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not 

aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was 

fraught. 
To strangers? — Oh! could strangers raise the 

head 
Gently as hers was raised ? — did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow? 
Something was there, that through the lingering 

night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light. 
Something that faints not thro' the day's distress. 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness; 
Love, true and perfect love ! — Whence came that 

power 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower ? 



634 



FELICIA HEMANS 



Whence ? who can ask? the wild deUrium passed, 
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had she come. 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home. 
To save her child? — E'en so — nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart a light sprung up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give. 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it be ?" 
The lorn one cried, ' ' and do I look on thee ? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore. 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 



" This tomb is in the garden of Charlotten- 
burgh, near Berlin. It was not without surprise 
that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair 
white Doric temple. I might, and should have 
deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but 
the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation 
of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble 
lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form 
was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person 
with me reverently turned it back, and displayed 
the statue of his Queen. It is a portrait-statue re- 
cumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance — not 
Eis in death, but when she lived to bless and to be 
blessed. Nothing can be more calm 'and kind 
than the expression of her features. The hands 
are folded on the bosom ; the hmbs are sufficiently 

crossed to show the repose of life. Here the 

King brings her children annually, to offer gar- 
lands at her grave. These hang in withered 
mournfulness above this living image of their 
departed mother." — Sherber's Notes and Reflec- 
tions during a Ramhle in Germany.. 



In sweet pride upon that insult keen 

She smiled ; then drooping mute and broken-hearted, 

To the cold comfort of the grave departed. 

Milman. 



It Stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep. 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread, 
Thou feel'stthe presence of the dead. 

And what within is richly shrined ? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest reclined. 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, Hes 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 
The mantle.'s quiet flow, 



The gentle, yet majestic grace. 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below, 
Was royal in her birth and woe. 

There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue ; — 
She was mother — in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh ! hallowed long be every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoiled, 
The standard of their sires borne down. 

The shield's bright blazon soiled : 
She met the tempest meekly brave. 
Then turned, o'erwearied, to the grave. 

She slumbered ; but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour. 
With the glad shout, and signal-flame. 

Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved— 
'Twas her's, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep, 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial poured 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crowned eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain — 

So was the triumph won ! 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's I — She was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 



On the road side between Penrith and Ap- 
pleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription : 
— " This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by 
Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a 
memorial of her last parting, in this place, with 
her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess 
Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616." 
— See Notes to the " Pleasures of Memory." 



Hast thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 

Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, 

Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered 

That modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared. 

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 

The silent sorrows of a parting hour'? 

Rogers, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN 



635 



Mother and child ! whose blending tears 

Have sanctified the place, 
Where, to the love of many years, 

Was given one last embrace ; 
Oh ! ye have shrined a spell of power, 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought, 

A still, small under-tone. 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot. 

Who but a mother's love hath known. 
The one love changing not ? 

Alas ! and haply learned its worth 

First with the sound of " Earth to earth?" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou. 
O'er whose bright, honoured head. 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow. 
E'en here were fondly shed. 

Thou from the passion of thy grief, 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For oh ! though painful be th' excess. 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells ; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride. 

Poisoned the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more. 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 

And all — was all in this world o'er, 
With ties thus close and true ? 

It was ! — On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name midst wood and hill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps. 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign ; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there, 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perished thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour ? 

Not so ! — I will not bow me sc 
To thoughts that breathe despair ! 

A loftier faith we need below. 
Life's farewell words to bear. 



Mother and child ! — your tears are past— 
Surely your hearts have met at last ! 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS. 



'Ne me plaignez paz— si vous saviez 
Combien da peines ce torabeau m'a epargnSeS." 



I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; 

Spring odours breathed around 
And music, in the river-wave. 

Passed with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 

In the bright air glanced by, 
And a glad murmur seemed to run 

Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy -bough 

That fringed the ruins near ; 
Young voices were abroad — but thou 

Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee. 
Thou in whose woman's mind 

The ray that brightens earth and sea, 
The light of song was shrined. 

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom, 
Thou wouldst have loved so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing. 

In their bright reckless play. 
Might feel the flush and life of spring, 

And thou wert passed away ! 

But then, ev'n then a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have looked, ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here. 
Yet beautiful is earth ! 



* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine 
scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its. 
having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. 
Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the 
village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of 
an ancient abbey that have been partially converted 
into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender 
shadow over it. — Tales by the O' Hara Family. 



636 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



What seest thou then where no dim fear, 
No haunting dream hath birth ? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gav'st — but where thou art, 

The sway is not with changeful hours, 
There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among. 

How often didst thou weep ! 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thoughts and high ? 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo 
del Carpio, having made many ineiTectual efforts 
to procure the release of his father, the Count 
Saldana, who had_ been imprisoned by King Al- 
fonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Ber- 
nardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. 
The war which he maintained proved so destruc- 
tive that the men of the land gathered round the 
King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. 
Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immedi- 
ate possession of his father's person, in exchange 
for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesi- 
tation, gave up his strong-hold, with all his cap- 
tives ; and being assured that his father was then 
on his way from prison, rode forth with the King 
to meet him. " And when he saw his father ap- 
proaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chro- 
nicle, " ' Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana in- 
deed coming ?' — •'' Look where he is,' replied the 
cruel King, ' and now go and greet him whom 
you have so long desired to see.' " The remain- 
der of the story will be found related in the bal- 
lad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly 
in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this 
event. 



The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed 
his heart of fire. 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- 
prisoned sire ; 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 
captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my Hege, my lord ! — oh, break 
my father's chain ! 

"Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
somed man this day ; 

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 
him on his way." 



Then Ughtly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 

his steed. 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering band. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his 

cheek's blood came and went ; 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and 

there, dismounting, bent; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took, — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead, — 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead ! ~" 

A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white ; — 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in thern was 

no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who 

could paint that gaze ? 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror 

and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that 

stony form he stood. 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lip the blood. 

"Father!" at length he murmured low — and 

wept like childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thoii hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all hia 

young renown, — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sate down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, "to Uft 

the sword for now, — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father — 

oh ! the worth. 
The glory, and the lovehness, are passed away 

from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met, — 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, — for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son !" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



637 



Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier (rain ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the raging 
war-horse led. 

And sternly set them face to face, — the king be- 
fore the dead ! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pjedge, my father's 

hand to kiss ? 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell 

me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — gave 

answer, where are they ? 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 

through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still ! keep 
down thine ire, — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 
is 7iot my sire ! 

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 
my blood was shed. 

Thou canst not— and a king ? — His dust be moun- 
tains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, — upon 

the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then 

turned from that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in 

martial strain, — 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills 

of Spain. 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! 
— Pale ghstening pearls, and rainbow-coloured 

shells, 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in 

vain ! 
— ^Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such firom thee. 

Yet more, the depths have m'ore ! — what wealth 

untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! 
— Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 

main ! 
Earth claims not these again, 

Yet more, the depths have more ! thy waves have 

rolled 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry, 
— Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have 

more ! 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 



They hear not now the booming waters roar. 
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 
— Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy gravo ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 

gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 

crown, 
— Yet must thou hear a voice — restore the dead ! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! 
— Restore the dead, thou sea! 



BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and 

vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale. 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back. 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day- 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell. 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours 
And a dream of his youth — bring him flowers, 
wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth! 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white-rose 

burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed. 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours. 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer, » 

They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 



638 



FJ^LICIA HEMANS. 



They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
They break forth in glory— bring flowers, bright 
flowers ! 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

Son of the ocean isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger ! track the deep, 
Free, free, the white sail spread ! 
Wave -may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'erswayed. 
With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 
And the palm-trees yield no shade. 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done, 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore. 
And far, by Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar. 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone ; 
—There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 
The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods. 
The hunter's bow is strung. 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? 
There slumber England's dead ! 

The mountain-storms rise high 
In the sno\vy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on '. 
Let the forest-wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour. 
When round the ship the ice-fields close. 
To chain her with their power. 

But let the ice drift on ! 

Let the cold-bllxe desert spread ! 



Their course with mast and flag is done, 
There slumber England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles, 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave ? 

Go, stranger ! track the deep. 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches tost ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came. 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared— 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair. 

Amidst that pilgrim -band — 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 

— They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



MISCELLA^EOUS POEMS, 



639 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, 

Whose thunders nought can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone, 

From the rich bovvers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along thy wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone. 
And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured, 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free, 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep. 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky. 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In t'nat one harmony. 

It fills the moontide's calm profound. 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound. 

E'en as when first it rolled. 

Let there be silence deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thou speak' St of one who doth not change — 
So ihay our hearts repose. 



CASABIANC A.* 

The boy stood on the burning deck. 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that ht the battle's wreck. 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — ^he would not go. 

Without his father's word ; [ 

* Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, 
BOn to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post j 
(in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken 
fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and pe- ' 
rished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames , 
had reached the puwder. I 



That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done ?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
— And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair ; 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound— 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
— Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there, 
Was that young faithful heart. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ■» 

Marmion. 



The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees. 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Through shade and sunny gleam. 
And the swan glides past them with the soum^ 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night. 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet, in the ruddy light ! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song. 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 
How softly on their bowers 



640 



FELICIA HEM AN S. 



Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook, of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird benearth their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod. 
Where first the. child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 



THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 



The prisoned thrush may brook the cage, 
The captive eagle dies for rage. 

Ladtj of the Lake. 



'TwAS a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight looked down from the Paynim's 

tower, 
And a Christian host in its pride and power, 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam, 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream. 

And their plumes to the glad wind float ! 
Cease awhile, clarion !. Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I am here, with my heavy chain 1 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by. 
And an eagle rushing to the sky, 

And a host, to its battle -plain 1 
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let thfem hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's 

flight, 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight. 

And the trumpet in mine ear ? 
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" They are gone ! they have all passed by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart. 

They have left me here to die 1 



Sound again, clarion ! Clarion pour thy blast ! 
Sound ! for the captive's dream of hope is past." 



THE MINSTER. 



A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined 
Our hopes of immortality. 



Byron 



Speak low ! — the place is. holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer ; 

Tread lightly ! — for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a noiseless influence on the air: 

Stern, yet serene I — a reconciling spell, 

Each troubled billow of (he soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 

— Not for the light that pours its fervid streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle. 

Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, 
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high ; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 
Through incense-mists their sainted pageant- 
ry: 

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, 

Yet not for these I ask one Ungering hour. 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 
poured 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; — 

I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 

Known to these altars of a thousand years. 

Send up a murmur from the dust. Remorse ! 

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head ; 
And thou still batthng with the tempest's force — 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has 
bled— 
Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or prayer, 
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair ? 

No voice, no breath ! — of conflicts past, no trace ! 

— Does not this hush give answer to my quest ? 
Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might confest ! 
— Oh ! that within my heart I could but keep 
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep ! " 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light tades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Calledthy harvest-work to leave ; 
Fray ! — ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



641 



Traveller, in the stranger's land 
Far from thine own household band ; 
■Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ! 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial plain : 
Y6 that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see- 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 



Sent from England to America. 



Yes ! rear thy guardian Hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou Western World ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 
O'er Freedom's flag unfurl'd. 

There, as before a jrtirine to bow. 
Bid thy true sons thy children lead ; 
The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit reared in patriot fight, 
The Virtue born of Home and Hearth, 
There calmly throned, a holy light 
Shall'pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand, 
Sent through the blast and surge's roar. 
So girt with tranquil glory, stand 
For ages on thy shore l 

Such through all time the greeting be, 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 
Telling the Mighty and the Free 
Of Brothers o'er the Deep ! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE 
CASTRO. 



Tableau, ou I'Amour fait alliance avec la "rombe j 
ucion redoutable de la mort et de la vie ! 

Madame de Stael. 



Thsre was music on the midnight ; — 

From a royal fane it rolled. 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hushed the listener's breath ; 
81 



For the music spoke of triumph high, 
The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight — 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness, 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it neared the minster-gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn Hght was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance, 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, • 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest I 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below. 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Slept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profoond-; 

With homage to her hand. 

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame. 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair I 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face ? 

Death ! Death ! canst thoic, be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life ? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife ? 
—It was a strange and fearful sight. 

The crown upon that head. 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gathered round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compressed. 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done. 
By the land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his martyred one. 

But on the face he looked not. 
Which once his star had been ; 



643 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



To every form his glance was turned, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there. 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre. 

The treasures of the earth. 
And the priceless love that poured those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array. 
Are borne to the house of silence down. 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train,— 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe. 

When they lowered the dust again. 
'Tis hushed at last the tomb above. 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who called thee strong as Death, Love ? 

Mishlier thou wast and art. 



THE KING OP ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.* 



If I could see him, it were well with me. 

Coleridge's JVallenstein. 



There were lights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquished city's halls, 
Ae by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls ; 
And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 

triumph, wailed the dead. 

He looked down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and towers below, 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, — and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 



* The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the 
loss of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during 
the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the his- 
torian Mariana. It is also the subject of one of the 
Old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart's beautiful collection. 



And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou 

city of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in 

thee? 
— I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll. 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! thou art gone, — 

the true and brave. 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 

grave ; 
There are many round my throne to stand, and to 

march where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world, — my 

brother ! thou art gone ! 

"In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean 

tempest's wrath. 
We stood together, side by side ; one hope was 

ours, — one path ; 
Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, 

thou hast fenced me with thy breast ; 
Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain — oh ! 

bravest heart, and best ! 

" I see the festive lights around ; — o'er a dull sad 

world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where is 

thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit 

found reply ! — 
Oh ! brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my 

glory and my sway. 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly ; — my friend 

hath passed away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain. 
And the face that was as light to mine — it can 

not come again ! 

"I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the 

offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 

purchased cold renown; 
How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds 

of triumph die. 
When I think of thee, my '/rother ! thou flower 

of chivalry}! 

" I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even as i, 

death ! 1 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the 

battle-trumpet's breath ; 
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal i 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother ? where ? — in thy ' 

low and early grave !" 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that 

victorious night, 
And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the stars' 

and torches' light ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



643 



But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 

the conqueror's moan — 
♦' My brother ! oh ! my brother! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone I ' ' 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun 

Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vailed her topsails to the sand, 

And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her — 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 

And sadder things than these. 

We saw her treasures cast away — 

The rocks with pearls were sown, 
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze' — 
And gorgeous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside — 
Yet by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — ' 

Till then we had not wept, 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had prest. 

With such a wreathing grasp. 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast. 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers clung. 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, 

Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 
Like Slumber's trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head. 

With half-shut violet eye — 
He had known little of her dread, 

Nought of her agony ! 

Oh ! human Love, whose yearning heart, 

Through all things vainly true. 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot, 

There is some home for thee. 



Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 
The moaning of the sea ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 

They filled one home with glee — 
Their graves are severed far and wide. 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight- 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep — 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dresti 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colours round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers, 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest; who played 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles ht up the hall. 

And cheered with song the hearth- 
Alas ! for love, if tho?/, wert all, 
And nought beyond, oh earth ! 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — ^but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

Day is for mortal care. 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; 
There comes a day of griefs overwhelming 
power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 



644 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



Youth and the opening rose 
May look Hke things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 
grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely 
crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And fiowers to wither at the north- wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



CHRIST STILLING THE 
TEMPEST. 



"But tlie ship was now in the midst of the sea, 
tossed with waves ; for the wind was contrary." 

St. Matthew, xiv. 24. 



Feae was within the tossing bark, 
When stormy winds grew loud ; 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled iii their skill — 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea, '-' Be still V 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! that word 
Passed through the gloomy sky ; 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
Aiid sank beneath his eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep. 

And siience on the blast. 
As when the righteous falls asleep, 

When death's fierce throes are past. 

Thou that didst rule the angry hour, 
And tanie the tempest's mood — 

Oh ! send thy spirit forth in power 
C^er our dark souls to brood! 



Thou that didst bow the billow's pride, 

Thy mandates to fulfil — 
Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide, 

Speak and say — " Peace, be still ! 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no hngerer in monarch's hall, 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world hke thee ! 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles — 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, 
And gladdened the sailor, like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow, 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains — ^a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array ; 
Thou breakest forth — and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam oithee on its casement fell, 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp to shed 
A tender light on the -ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom hke the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer, oh ! what is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! 
— One thing is like thee, to mortals given, — 
The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven. 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

" Why wouldst thou leave me, oh ! gentle child? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall. 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



645 



They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme ; 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 

they know — 
Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell. 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune ; 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She- sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee • 
I dreamt last night of that music low- 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest. 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
— Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ? 
— But I know that my brothers are there at play. 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell. 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well, 
Or thoy launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now. 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow. 
They have left the fern by the spring's green side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
— Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot." 

' ' Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? 
— But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still, 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the turf is bent by the singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let mfe go." 



THE BREEZE FROM LAND. 



" As when to them who sail 



Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 

Moiainbic, off at sea north-east winds blow 

Sabean odours from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay 

Well pleased they slack their course, and many ! 

league, 
Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles." 

Paradise Lost. 



Joy is upon the lonely seas. 
When Indian forests pour 

Forth to the billow and the breeze 
Their fragrance from the shore ; 



Joy, when the soft air's glowing sigh 
Bears on the breaih of Araby. 

Oh ! welcome are the winds that tell 

A wanderer of the deep 
Where far away the jasmines dwell, 

And where the myrrh- trees weep ! 
Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 

The sailor at the helm they meet. 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upspringing, 'midst the waves to greet 

The fair earth's messengers, 
That woo him, from the mournful main, 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade 
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales 

Of golden-fruited shade ; 
Across his lone ship's wake they bring 
A vision and a glow of spring ! 

And oh ! ye masters of the lay ! 

Come not e'en thus your songs. 
That meet us on life's weary way 

Amidst her toihng throngs ? 
Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air ! 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our birth hath part. 
Their tones are of the world which time 

Sears not within the heart ; 
They tell us of the living hght 
In its green places ever bright. 

They call us with a voice divine 

Back to our early love, 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine 

Whence far and soon we rove : 
— Welcome, high thought and holy strain. 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again!* 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 

'TwAS night in Babylon : yet many a beam. 
Of lamps far-glittering from her domes on high. 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream. 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 
Whose azure knows no cloud : — each whisperea 

sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace- 
bowers 
Bore deepening tones "of joy and melody, 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers ; 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her 
towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall. 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band 



* Written immediately after reading the "Remarks 
on the Character and Writings of Milton," in the 
Christian Examiner. 



646 



FELICIA HEMAiVS. 



High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. — There Luxury's 

hand 
Had showered around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East ; — all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back; — all sweets of many a 

land, 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy 

shore ; 
— But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded 

more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain ! 
The Lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane : 
Thrice holy vessels ! — pure from earthly stain. 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deigned within the oracle to reign, 
Revealed, yet shadowed ; making noon-day 
dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the Cheru- 
bim. . 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of 

song. 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling 

eye. 
And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! — Fill the nectar high. 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they 

die, 
And bid the censers of the Temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of 

oldl 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadowed forth the senses to appal, 
Yon fearful vision ? — Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause ? — Along the illumined wall. 
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all, 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand. 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand. 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far dis- 
tant land. 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board. 
And quivering lips, and whispers deep and 

low. 
And fitful starts ! — the v^ine in triumph poured, 
Untasted toams, the song hath ceased to flow. 
The waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might. 
Trembles before a shadow ! — Say not so ! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding 

sight. 
Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenging 

Infinite ! 

But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers. 
The men of prescience ! haply to their eyes. 
Which track the future through the roUiiig 

spheres. 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies. 



They come — the readers of the midnight skies, 
They that give voice to visions — but in vain ! 
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies. 
It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 
Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries tc 
explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — One of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose 
Of his pale features half o'erawed the mind, 
And imaged forth a soul, whose joys and woes 
Were of a loftier stamp than aught assigned 
To earth ; a being sealed and severed from man- 
kind. 

Yes I — what was earth to him, whose spirit 

passed 
Time' s utmost bounds ? — on whose unshrinking 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence ! — Majesty and might. 
Were in his dreams ; — for him the veil of light 
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and 

throne, 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright 
Was raised ! — to him, in fearful splendour 
shown. 
Ancient of days ! e'en thou mad'st thy dread pre- 
sence known. 

He spoke : — the shadows of the things to come 
Passed o'er his soul : — " O King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom, 
The one, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'Tis 

decreed 
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall 

divide. 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 
The days are full, they come ; — the Persian and 

the Mede !" 

There fell a moment's thriUing silence round, 
A breathless pause ! the hush of hearts that beat 
And limbs that quiver : — is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet ? 
— 'Twas but some echo, in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course 
along ; — 
Away ! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again ! — Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on as o'er a battle-field ! 
The shout of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive" or yield ! 
And the loud, startHng clash oT spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ! — and, blent with 

these. 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is 

sealed 
In their full mirth ! — all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roar of far-advancing seas ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



647 



And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry ! 
And lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 
Death bursting on the halls of revelry '. 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die. 
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted 

train. 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 
Red flames, hke banners, wave from dome and 

fane. 
Empire is lost and won, Belshazzar with the slain. 

Fallen is the golden city ! in the dust. 
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state. 
She that hath made the Strength of Towers 

her trust. 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate ! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate, 
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more ! 
Lady of kingdoms! — Who shall mourn her 

fate? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er ; — 
— What widowed land shall now her widowhood 

deplore ! 

Sit thou in silence ! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters ! thou whose augurs read, 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The mighty name it blazons ! — Veil thy head. 
Daughter of Babylon ! the sword is red 
From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
"lam, and none beside !" — Th' Eternal spoke. 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke. 

But go thou forth, Israel ! wake ! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient 

day ! 
Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels ! — ^loose the chain, and 

say 
God hath redeemed his people ! — from decay 
Tlie silent and the trampled shall arise ; 
— Awake ; put on thy beautiful array. 
Oh long-forsaken Zion ! to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies ! 

And lift thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning. 
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain ! 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning ; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain 
Because her children were not — dwells again 
Girt with the lovely ! — through thy streets once 

more. 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns the joy of youth 

restore ! 



From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renowned- 
Silent tliey lie, with the deserts round ! 
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath 

rolled 
All dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 
And each worn wing hath regained its home, 
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,- 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? 
— "We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !" 

Oh ! joyous birds, it hath still been so ; 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot. 
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ? 

"A change we have found there — and many a 

change ! 
Faces and footsteps and all things strange ! 
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair. 
And the young that were, have a brow of care. 
And the place is hushed where the children 

played, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made !" 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth. 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air, 
I'lshave a guide, and shall we despair? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed, — 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs ;— bring 

back 
The love that I have lost ! 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

BtRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? 
— ' ' We come from the shores of the green old 

Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 



What wak'st thou, Spring ? — sweet voices in the 
woods. 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless 
flute, 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
Ev'n as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee. Spring ! — the joyous 
leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade. 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
When thy south- wind hath pierced the whis- 
pery shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass. 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 



648 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



And the bright waters— they too hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall , 

Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers— the fairy -peopled world of flowers! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And penciling the wood-anemone ; 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, Spring! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing. 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou 
art, 

What wak'st thou in the heart ? 

Too much, oh ! there too much ! we know not 
well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, 
What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's 
deep cell. 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone. 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that nevermore. 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 
Past words of welcome to our household door. 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted 
feet- 
Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees. 
Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms ? 
Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? 
Yes ! gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief. 

Bernard Barton. 



Bt the soft green light in the woody glade, 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played ; 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
First looked in love to the summer-sky ; 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath. 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell. 
Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 



By the sleepy ripple of the stream. 
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream ; 
By the shiver of the ivy- leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, 
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

When twilight called into household mirth ; 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite. 

In the parting prayer and the kind " Good night ;" 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 

Over thy hfe has a spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift I — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall, 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

\ es ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home ; 
Think thou again of the woody glade. 
And the sound by the rusthng ivy made.. 
Think of the tree at thy father's door. 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 



O night, 
And storm, and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength ! 

Byron. 



I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet dew. 
In bell and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which ghmmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track. 
Give but the moss, the reed, the hly back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace ; — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey- 
bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young 
glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



649 



On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? — 1 have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake. 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crushed affections, which, though long o'er- 
borne. 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb ; 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove- 
Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread. 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, — the dead, — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish 

vain. 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control. 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! the armed — the strong, 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the 

tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse : — Be holy, earth ! 

I am the solemn night ! 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 



There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice 
of a spirit. 

Oray's Letters. 



Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many 

a voice is thine. 
From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear- 

est a sound and sign. 



* Originally published in the Winter's Wreath, for 
1830. 

82 



A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mas- 
tery all iJiine own. 

And the spirit is thy harp, Wind ! that gives 
the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shivered hamlets lie. 
And thou bringest hence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy 

drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 
wastes brought back 

Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 
of thy track ; 

The chime of low soft southern waves on some 
green palmy shore, 

TheJiollow roll of distant surge, the gathered bil- 
lows' roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell 

combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden 

things and free. 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities Hghted up for the con- 
queror passing by. 

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 
haughty revelry ; 

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in 
the hall, 

The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise 
and fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath passed ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the 

stalely dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to 

his place of slumber gone. ^ 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, where- 
in our young days flew. 

Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the 
loved, the kind, the true ; 

Thou callest back those melodies, though now all 
changed and fled, — 

Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music 
from the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind ? these 

many notes in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount must 

surely be ; 
Yea ! buried, but unsleeping, there Thought 

watches, Memory lies. 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured, 

through all Earth's harmonies. 



650 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



THE BETTER LAND. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land, 
Thou callest its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek, it, and weep no more ? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire -flies glance through the myrtle 
boughs?" 
— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings. 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

■" Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine. 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? — 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child ?" 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams can not picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
— It is there, it is there, my child 1" 



So are we roused on this chequered earth. 
Each unto light hath a daily birth. 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 

But one must the sound be, and one the call, 
Which from the dust shall awake us all. 
One — ^but to severed and distant dooms — 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ? 



LET US DEPART. 



THE WAKENING. 

How many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest-bough, 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane. 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some far out on the deep mid-sea, 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee. 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 

And some — oh ! well may their hearts rejoice — 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ! 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone. 
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath. 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun. 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 

And some, in the gloomy convict-cell. 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell. 

As it heavily calls them forth to die. 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to the din from the city borne. 
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods, 
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 



It is mentioned by Josephus, that a short time pre- 
viously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, 
the priests, going by night into the inner court of the 
temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the 
feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing 
noise, and after that, a sound as of a great multitude 
saying, "Let us depart hence." 



Night hung on Salem's towers, 

And a brooding hush profound 
Lay where the Roman eagle shone, 

High o'er the tents around. 

The tents that rose by thousands 
In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 

Like white waves of a frozen sea, 
Filling an Alpine vale. 

And the temple's massy shadow 

Fell broad, and dark, and still. 
In peace, as if the Holy One 

Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 

But a fearful sound was heard 
In that old fane's deepest heart, 

As if mighty wings rush'd by, 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart !" 

Within the fated city 

E'en then fierce discord raved. 
Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword 

Its vengeful token waved. 

There were shouts of kindred warfare 
Through the dark streets ringing high, 

Though every sign was full which told 
Of the bloody vintage nigh. 

Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host. 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars. 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
In the Temple's deepest heart. 

As if mighty wings rush'd by. 
And a voice cried mournfully, 
" Let us depart !" 

But within the fated city 

There was revelry that night ; 
The wine-cup and the timbrel note. 

And the blaze of banquet light 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



651 



The footsteps of the dancer 
Went bounding through the hall, 

And the music of the dulcimer 
Summon' d to festival. 

While the clash of brother weapons 
Made lightning in the air, 

And the dying at the palace gates 
Lay down in their despair. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
At the Temple's thrilling heart, 

As if mighty wings rush'd by, 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart .'" 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 

Hark ! from the dim church tower, 

The deep slow curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto hall and bower, 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night. 
And who might not see his own hearth-flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheer' d the board with the mirthful 
word, 

And the red wine's foaming flow '. 
Until that sullen boding knell 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp and hp, and spirit, fell, 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then. 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage-lamp to the haunts of men 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul. 

With lone aspirings fill'd, 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were still'd ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed. 
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low, 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep 

By the dying babe, her place, 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, 

Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ? 

Darkness in peasant's cot ! 
While freedom, under that shadowy pall, 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 

For blood hath flow'd like rain, 
Four'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the yule-fagots high. 
Till the red light fills the room ! i 



It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky 
Grows thick with evening-gloom. 

Gather ye round the holy hearth, 
And by its gladdening blaze, 

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 
With a thought of the olden days ! 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



" I desire as 1 look on these, the ornaments and 
children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such 
things I shall see no more'? — whether they have no 
likeness, no archetype in the world in which my 
future home is to be cast t or whether they have their 
images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and 
delightful mould." — Conversations with an Mmbitious 
Student in ill health. 



Bear them not from grassy dells, 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds : 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are. 
And the glow-worm's emerald star. 
And the bird, whose song is free, 
And the many-whispering tree : 
Oh ! too deep a love, and vain, 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes, 
Closing fast on summer skies ! 
Woo thou not the spirit back. 
From its lone and viewless track, 
With the bright things which have birth 
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the lily's pearl-cup shed, 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; 
Dreams of youth — of spring-time eves- 
Music — beauty — all she leaves ! 

Hush ! 'tis thou that dreaming art. 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes ! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love; 
But that passion, deep and true. 
Knows not of a last adieu. 

Types of lovelier forms than these. 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things. 
Born beside immortal springs, 
Into fuller glory wrought. 
Kindled by surpassing thought ! 

Therefore, in the lily's leaf. 
She can read no word of grief; 
O'er the woodbine she can dwell, 
Murmuring not — Farewell ! farewell! 






653 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



And her dim, yet speaking eye, 
Greets the violet solemnly. 

Therefore, once, and yet again. 
Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 
From her chamber take the gloom, 
With a hght and flush of bloom : 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no Death can touch the rose ! 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.* 



Thou falcon-hearted dove ! 



Coleridge. 



The Moslem spears were gleaming 

Round Damietta's towers, 
Though a Christian banner from her wall, 

Waved fi'ee its Lily-flowers. 
Ay, proudly did the banner wave. 

As Queen of Earth and Air ; 
But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds, 

In anguish and despair, 

Deep, deep in Paynira dungeon. 

Their kingly chieftain lay, 
And low on many an Eastern field 

Their knighthood's best array. 
'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 

The wine-cup round to send, 
For each that touch' d it silently. 

Then miss'd a gallant friend ! 

And mournful was their vigil 

On the beleaguer'd wall. 
And' dark their slumber, dark with dreams 

Of slow defeat and fall. 
Yet a few hearts of Chivalry 

Rose high to breast the storm, 
And one — of all the loftiest there — 

Thrill'd in a woman's form. 

A woman, meekly bending 

O'er the slumber of her child. 
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love, 

As the Virgin Mother's mild. 
Oh ! roughly cradle,d was thy Babe, 

'Midst the clash of spear and lance, 
And a strange, wild bower was thine, young 
Queen : 

Fan- Marguerite of France ! 

A dark and vaulted chamber, 
Like a scene for wizard-spell. 



* Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks 
in Damietta, during the captivity of the king, her hus- 
band, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named 
Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. In- 
formation being conveyed to her that the knights in- 
trusted with the defence of the city had resolved on 
(;apitulation, she had them summoned to her apart- 
ment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their 
spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to 
the last extremity. 



Deep in the Saracenic gloom 

Of the warrior citadel ; 
And there 'midst arms the couch was spread, 

And with banners curtain' d o'er, 
For the daughter of the Minstrel-land, 

The gay Provencal shore ! 

For the bright Queen of St. Louis, 

The star of court and hall ! — 
But the deep strength of the gentle heart, 

Wakes to the tempest's call ! 
Her Lord was in the Paynim's hold, 

His soul with grief oppress'd. 
Yet calmly lay the desolate. 

With her young babe on her breast ! 

There were voices in the city. 

Voices of wrath and fear — 
" The walls grow weak, the strife is vain, 

We will not perish here ! 
Yield ! yield ! and let the crescent gleam 

O'er tower and bastion high! 
Our distant homes are beautiful — 

We stay not here to die !" 

They bore those fearful tidings 

To the sad Queen where she lay — 
They told a tale of wavering hearts, 

Of treason and dismay : 
The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek, 

The sparkle to her eye — 
' ' Now call me hither those recreant knights. 

From the bands of Italy 1"* 

Then through the vaulted chambers 

Stern iron footsteps rang ; 
And heavily the sounding floor 

Gave back the sabre's clang. 
They stood around her — steel-clad men, 

Moulded for storm and fight. 
But they quail'd before the loftier soul 

In that pale aspect bright. 

Yes — as before the falcon shrinks 

The bird of meaner wing, 
So shrank they from th' imperial glance 

Of her — that fragile thing I 
And her flute-hke voice rose clear and high, 

Through the din of arms around. 
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul. 

As a silver clarion's sound. 

" The honour of the Lily 

Is in your hands to keep, 
And the Banner of the Cross, for Him 

Who died on Calvary's steep ; 
And the city which for Christian prayer 

Hath heard the holy bell— 
And is it these your hearts would yield 

To the godless Infidel ? 

" Then bring me here a breastplate, 

And a helm, before yeily. 
And I will gird my woman's form, 

And on the ramparts die ! 



* The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the 
French historian to the Knights of Pisa. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



6S3 



And the boy whom I have borne for woe, 

But never for disgrace, 
Shall go within mine arnas to death 
Meet for his royal race. 

" Look on him as he slumbers 

In the shadow of the lance ! 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

To perish undefiled ; 
A woman and a queen, to guard 

Her honour and her child V 

Before her words they thrill' d, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier mood. 
And her babe awoke to flashing swords, 

Unsheathed in many a hand, 
As they gather'd round the helpless one, 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors, lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ! 
The spirit of thy kindling word 

On every sword shall be ! 
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast. 

Rest — we will guard thee well ; 
St. Denis for the Lily-flower, 

And the Christian citadel ! 



THE ENGLISH BOY. 



•' Go call thy sons ; instruct them what a debt 
They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 
To pay it, by transmitting down entire 
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.' 

Akitiside. 



Look from the ancient mountains down. 

My noble English Boy ! 
Thy country's fields around thee gleam 

In sunlight and in joy. 

Ages have roU'd since foeman's march 
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod ; 

For well the land hath fealty held 
To Freedom and to God ! 

Gaze proudly on, my EngUsh Boy ! 

And let thy kindling mind 
Drink in the spirit of high thought 

From every chainless wind ! 

There, in the shadow of old Time, 

The halls beneath thee lie, 
Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore, 

Our England's chivalry. 

How bravely and how solemnly 
They stand, 'midst oak and yew ? 

Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed 
The bow, in battle true. 



And round their walls the good swords hang 

Whose faith knew no alloy. 
And shields of knighthood, pure from slain— 

Gaze on, my English Boy ! 

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 

Gleams by the antique elm, 
Or where the minster lifts the cross ' 

High through the air's blue realm. 

Martyrs have shower' d their free hearts' blood, 
That England's prayer might rise, 

From those grey fanes of thoughtful years, 
Unfetter'd; to the skies. 

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, 

This earth's most glorious dust, 
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,- 

Is laid in holy trust. 

Gaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 

My gallant English Boy ! 
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag, 

The billows' pride and joy i 

Those waves in many a fight have closed 

Above her faithful dead ; 
That red-cross flag victoriously 

Hath floated o'er their bed. 

They perish' d — this green turf to keep 

By hostile tread unstain'd ; 
These knightly halls inviolate. 

Those churches unprofaned. 

And high and clear their memory's Ught 

Along our shore is set. 
And many an answering beacon-fire 

Shall there be kindled yet 1 

Lift up thy heart, my Enghsh Boy ! 

And pray, hke them to stand. 
Should God so summon thee, to guard 

The altars of the land. 



PASSING AWAY. 



" Passing away" is written on the world, and alS 
the world contains. 



It is written on the rose 

In its glory's full array: 
Read what those buds disclose— 
" Passing away," 

It is written on the skies 

Of the soft blue summer day ; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes— 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the trees. 

As their young leaves glistening playi 
And on brighter things than these — 
" Passing away." 



654 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 
away?'' 



It is written on the litart — 

Alas ! that there decay 
Should claim from love a part— 
" Passing away." 

Friends ! friends ! — oh ! shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 
Pass not away ? 

Shall we knov/ each other's eyes 

And the thoughts that in them lay 
When we mingled sympathies 
Passing away ? 

Oh ! if this may be so, 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
How blest, from earth's vain show 
To pass away ! 



DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 

Dream' ST ihou of Heaven ? — What dreams are 
thine ? 

Fair child, fair gladsome child ! 
With eyes that like the dew-drop shine, 

And bounding footstep wild. 

Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 

Can wear, my bird! to thee, 
Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 

Thy glance and spirit free ? 

" Oh ! beautiful is Heaven, and bright 

With long, long summer days ! 
I see its lilies gleam in light, 

Where many a fountain plays. 



" And there unchecked, methinks, I rove 
Seeking where young flowers lie. 

In vale and golden fruited-grove — 
Flowers that are not to die !" 

Thou Poet of the lonely thought, 

Sad heir of gifts divine ! 
Say, with what solemn glory fraught 

Is Heaven in dream of thine ? 

" Oh ! where the living waters flow 

Along that radiant shore, 
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 

The exile-thirst no more ! 

" The burden of the stranger's heart 
Which here unknown I bear. 

Like the night- shadow shall depart, 
With my iirst wakening there. 

'* And borne on eagles' wings afar, 
Free thought shall claim its dower 

From every sphere, from every star, 
Of glory and of power." 

O, Woman ! with the soft sad eye 

Of spiritual gleam ! 
Tell me of those bright realms on high, 

How doth thy deep heart dream ? 

By thy sweet mournful voice I know, 

On thy pale brow I see, 
That thou hast loved in silent woe, 

Say, what is Heaven to thee ? 

" Oh ! Heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt Love's meeting hour ; 

Where from the past, no gloom is shed 
O'er the heart's chosen bower; 

" Where every severed wreath is bound; 

And none have heard the knell 
That smites the soul in that wild somid-^ 

Farewell ! Beloved, farewell!" 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, the 
second daughter of Thomas, and the grand- 
daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born 
in London. Soon after the union of Mr. Sheridan 
with her mother (the daughter of Colonel and 
Lady Elizabeth Callander,) he became consump- 
tive, and was induced to try the effects of a warmer 
climate upon his constitution. His wife accom- 
panied him to Madeira, and subsequently to the 
Cape, where, after lingering two or three years, 
he died. His still young and beautiful widow re- 
turned to England, to superintend the education of 
her children, — a task to which she devoted herself 
with engrossing zeal, passing the best and gene- 
rally the vainest years of a woman's life, apart 
from the gay world ; indifferent to the lures of 
society, and sacrificing even her personal comforts 
to advance their interests and form their minds. 
To this accomplished and excellent parent may be 
attributed much of Mrs. Norton's literary fame ; 
— it forms another link in that long chain of here- 
ditary genius which has now been extended 
through a whole century. Her sister, the lady 
of the Hon. Captain Price BJackwood, is also a 
writer of considerable taste and power : her pub- 
lications have been anonymous, and she is disin- 
clined to seek that notoriety which the "pursuits 
of literature" obtain ; — but those who are ac- 
quainted with the productions of her pen will 
readily acknowledge their surpassing merit. The 
sisters used, in their childish days, to write 
together ; and, before either of them had attained 
the age of twelve years, they produced two little 
books of prints and verses, called, " The Dandies' 
Ball," and " The Travelled Dandies ;" both being 
imitations of a species of caricature then in vogue. 
But we beheve that, at a much earlier period, 
Mrs. Norton had written poetry, whic'n even now 
she would not be ashamed to see in print. Her 
disposition to "scribble," was, however, checked 
rather than encouraged by her mother ; for a long 
time, pen, ink, and paper were denied to the 
young Poetess, and works of fiction carefully 
kept out of her way, with a view of compelling a 
resort to occupations of a more useful character. 
Her active and energetic mind, notwithstanding, 
soon accomplished its cherished purpose. At the 
age of seventeen, she wrote " The Sorrows of 
Rosalie;" and, although it was not pubUshed 
until some time afterwards, she had scarcely 
passed her girlhood before she had established for 



herself the distinction which had long been at- 
tached to her maiden name. 

At the age of nineteen, Miss Sheridan was 
married to the Hon. George Chappie Norton, 
brother to the present Lord Grantley. He had 
proposed for her three years previously, but her 
mother had postponed the contract until the 
daughter was better qualified to fix her choice. 
These years had enabled her to make acquaint- 
ance with one whose early death prevented a 
union more consonant to her feelings. When Mr. 
Norton again sought her hand, he received it. It 
is unnecessary to add, that the marriage has not 
been a happy one : the world has heard the slan- 
ders to which she has been exposed ; and a verdict 
of acquittal from all who, for a moment, listened 
to them, can scarcely have atoned for the cruel 
and baseless suspicions to which she had been 
subjected. 

Mrs. Norton has published two volumes of 
poetry, — " The Sorrows of Rosalie," and " The 
Undying One." The former tells the story of a 
ruined cottage girl ; and the latter is founded on 
the superstition of the wandering Jew. The sub- 
ject of the latter especially, was ill chosen;. a 
circumstance for which the authoress accounts, by 
stating that until she married she had read fewer 
works of fiction than most young persons. The 
St. Leon of Godwin, and the wild romance of 
Maturin, were unknown to her ; and she imagined 
she was inventing, when she was, in fact, only 
following in the path of her predecessors. 

Mrs. Norton is eminently beautiful : her form 
is peculiarly graceful and dignified ; and her fea- 
tures are exquisitely chiselled, — but hers is that 
intellectual beauty with which there is usually 
mingled a degree of haughtiness. She must 
occupy a high station among female authors, of 
which our age may boast a long and dazzling list. 
Her mind is of a high order ; but she is far from 
having attained the zenith of her fame. 

Her poetry is distinguished both by grace and 
energy. She is, perhaps, deficient in that inven- 
tive faculty in which some of her contemporaries 
have so greatly excelled ; but her productions are 
full of thought, — there is nothing of the aspect of 
poverty in any thing she has written ; on the con- 
trary, her ideas seem too large and abundant for 
her verse : and she far more often crowds her 
materials than ekes out a description by words 
that might be dispensed with. 



(655) 



656 



CAROLINE NORTON, 



THE DREAM. 



'TwAS summer eve ; the changeful beams still 

play'd 
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade ; 
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud; 
Still the stream ghtter'd where the willow bow'd ; 
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone, 
Nor yet the stars had raUied round her throne ; 
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West 
Wears the red shield above his dying breast, 
Dare not assume the loss they all desire. 
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire, 
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light. 
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night ! 

So when some chief, whose name through 
realms afar 
Was still the watchword of successful war, 
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all. 
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall, 
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath. 
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death ; 
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim. 
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name, 
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away, 
And leaves what was a hero, common clay. 

Oh ! twilight ! spirit that dost render birth 
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with 

Earth, 
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 
Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, 
Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, 
And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, 
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws. 
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace, 
Fondly he dreams- of each familiar face, 
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife. 
To whom his coming is the chief event 
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past. 
And those poor cottagers have only cast 
One careless glance on all that show of pride. 
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; 
But him they wait for, him they welcome home, 
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come ; 
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim. 
The fi-ugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
For him the watching of that sturdy boy. 
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy. 
For him, — who plods his sauntering way along. 
Whistling the fragment of some village song ! 

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light. 
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
Companion'd only by his beating heart. 
And with an eager fancy oft beholds - 

The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds 



Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead, j 
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! I 

At length she comes. The evening's holy grace? 
Mellows the glory of her radiant face ; 
The curtain of that daylight faint and pale i 

Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil ; j 
As, turning with a bashful timid thought, I 

From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, 
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky 
Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye. 

Oh ! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers 
Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers 
Heard the low breeze along the branches play, 
And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. 
For though that glorious Paradise be lost, 
Though earth by lighting storms bo roughly 

cross' d, 
Though the long curse demands the lax of sin. 
And the day's sorrows with the day begin, 
That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still 
Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, 
The holiest hour of Earth. Then toil doth cease- 
Then from the yoke the oxen find release — 
Then man rests pausing from his many cares, 
And the world teems with children's sunset 

prayers! 
Then innocent things seek out their natural rest. 
The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast; 
The birds beneath their leafy covering creep. 
Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep ; 
And angels, floating by, on radiant wings. 
Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings. 
Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, 
The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song, 
And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar. 
As things too sacred for this fallen star. 

At such an hour, on such a summer night, 
Silent and calm in its transparent fight, 
A widow'd parent watch'd her slumbering child, 
On whose young face the sixteenth summer 

smiled. 
Fair was the lace she watch'd ! Nor less, because 
Beauty's perfection seemed to make a pause, 
And wait, oti that smooth brow, some further 

touch, 
Some spell from tune, — the great magician, — such 
As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom, 
And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom. 
Girhsh as yet, but with the gentle grace 
Of a young fawn in its low resting-place, 
Her folded hmbs were lying : from her hand 
A group of wild flowers^-Nature's brightest band, 
Of all that laugh along the summer fields, 
Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields, 
Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide, 
Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride, — 
Show'd that the weariness whichxlosed in sleep 
So tranquil, child-like, innocent, and deep, 
Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours. 
Had; brought ; but, likie a flower among the flowers, 
She had .been wandering 'iieath asummer sky, 
Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye. 
Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn, 
And. the blue scabious from the sunny corn ; 
SmiHng and- singing Uke a spirit, fair 
That walk'd the world, but had no dwelling there. 



THE DREAM, 



657 



And still (as though their faintly -scented breath 
Pieserv'd a meek fidehty in death) 
Each late imprison' d blossom fondly lingers 
Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, 
Though, languidly unclasp' d, that hand no more 
Guards its posession of the rifled store. 

So wearily she lay ; so sweetly slept ; 
So by her side fond watch the mother kept ; 
And, as above her gentle child she bent. 
So like they seem'd in form and lineament, 
You might have deem'd her face its shadow gave 
To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave ; 
Only in this they differ' d ; that, while one 
Was warm and radiant as the summer sun. 
The other's smile had more a moonlight play, 
For many tears had wept its glow away ; 
Yet was she fair ; of loveliness so true. 
That time, which faded, never could subdue : 
And though the sleeper, like a half-blown rose, 
Shovv'd bright as angels in her soft repose, 
Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid. 
Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hid — 
Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, 
But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep ; — 
Though fainter lines were pencill'd on the brow, 
Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below ; 
Though deeper colour flush'd her youthful cheek. 
In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek. 
And fuller seem'd the small and crimson mouth, 
With teeth hke those that glitter in the south — 
She had but youth's superior brightness, such 
As the skill'd painter gives with flattering touch 
When he would picture every lingering grace 
Which once shown brighter in some copied face ; 
And it was compliment, whene'er she smil'd. 
To say, " Thou'rt like thy mother, my fair child !" 

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove ! — 
Holy as Heaven a mother's tender love I 
The love of many prayers and many tears, 
Which changes not with dim declining years — 
The only love which on this teeming Earth 
Asks no return from passion's wayward birth ; 
The only love that, with a touch divine, 
Displaces from the heart's most secret shrine 
The idol self ! Oh ! prized beneath thy due 
When life's untried affections all are new — 
Love, from whose calmer hope and holier rest 
(Like a fledged bird, impatient of the nest) 
The human heart, rebellious, springs to seek 
Delights more vehement, in ties more weak ; 
How strange to us appears, m after-life, 
That term of mingled carelessness and strife. 
When guardianship so gentle gall'd our pride, 
When it was holiday to leave thy side. 
When, with dull ignorance that would not learn, 
We lost those hours that never can return — 
Hours, whose most sweet communion Nature 

meant 
Should be in confidence and kindness spent. 
That we (hereafter mourning) might believe 
In human faith, though all around deceive ; 
Might weigh against the sad and startling crowd 
Of ills which wound the weak and chill the proud. 
Of woes 'neath which (despite of stubborn will, 
Philosophy's vain boast, and erring skilll 
83 



The strong heart downward like a willow bende, 
Failure of love, — and treachery of friends, — 
Our recollections of the undefiled. 
The sainted tie, of parent and of child! 

Oh ! happy days ! Oh years that glided by. 
Scarce chronicled by one poor passing sigh ! 
When the dark storm sweeps past us, and the soui 
Struggles with fainting strength to reach the goal ; 
When the false baits that lured us only cloy, 
What would we give to grasp your vanish'd joy 
From the cold quicksand of Ufe's treacherous 

shore 
The backward light our anxious eyes explore, 
Measure the miles our wandering feet have come 
Sinking heart-weary, far away from home. 
Recall the voice that whisper' d love and peace, 
i The smile that bid our early sorrows cease, 
And long to bow our grieving heads, and weep 
Low on the gentle breast that luU'd us first to 

sleep ! 

Ah ! bless' d are they for whom 'mid all their 
I pains 

That faithful and unalter'd love remains ; 
Who, life wreck'd round them, — hunted from 

their rest, — 
And, by all else forsaken or distress' d, — 
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine — 
As I, my mother, claim'd my place in thine ! 

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face ; 
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 

In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe ; 
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know : 
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task 

Conn'd by unwilling lips, with hstless air, 
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 

More than the widow's pittance then could 
spare. 
Hidden, forgotten, by the great and gay, 

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts. 
But the long self-denial, day by day, 

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! 
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain 

The young rebelHous spirits crowding round, 
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain. 

And could not comfort — yet had power to 
wound ! 
Ah ! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown 
Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
With riper judgment looking to the past, 
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time. 
And darkens every folly into crime ! 

Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, 

And what they do or suffer men record ; 
But the long sacrifice of woman's days 

Passes without a thought — without a word ; 
And many a holy struggle for the sake 

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd — 
For which the anxious mind must watch and 
wake. 

And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd,— 



658 



CAROLINE NORTON 



Goes by unheeded as the sumnner wind, 
And leaves no memory and no trace behind ! 
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells 

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, 
Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells 

Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high 
debate : 
The soldier dies surrounded ; — could he live 
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive ? 

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom 
Shows deeper horror than a common tomb ! 
Who sleep within ? The men who would evade 
An unseen lot of which they felt afraid. 
Embarrassment of means, which work'd annoy, — 
A past remorse, — a future blank, of joy, — 
The sinful rashness of a blind despair, — 
These were the strokes which sent your victims 
there. 

In many a village churchyard's simple grave, 
Where all unmark'd the cypress branches wave ; 
In many a vault where Death could only claim 
The brief inscription of a woman's name ; 
Of different ranks, and different degrees, 
From daily labour to a life of ease, 
(From the rich wife who through the weary day 
Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey. 
To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and 

moor, 
And with her baby begg'd from door to door, — ) 
Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release, 
Had lost all memory of the blessing " peace ;" 
Hearts, whose long struggle through impitied 

years 
None saw but Him who marks the mourner's 

tears ; 
The obscurely noble I who evaded not 
The woe which He had will'd should be their lot, 
But nerved themselves to bear ! 

Of such art thou, 
My mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, 
And high devoted heart, which suffer'd still 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because fate hath will'd that mine should be 
A poet's soul (at least in my degree,) — 
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, — 
Therefore I speak of thee ; that those who read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed, 
Thy early-widow'd image may recall 
And greet thy nature as the type of all ! 

Enough ! With eyes of fond unwearied love 
The mother of my story vs'atch'd above 
Her sleeping child ; and, as she views the grace 
And blushing beauty of that girlish face. 
Her thoughts roam back through change of time 

and tide, 
Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side. 

In that sweet vision she again receives 

The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head 

Lay, hke a small bud folded in its leaves, 
Foster'd with dew by t^gars of fondness shed ; 

Each infantine event, each dangerous hour 
Which pass'd with threatening o'er its fragile 
form, 



Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower 
Bloom'd to the sun, or sicken'd in the storm, 

In memory's magic mirror glide along. 
And scarce she notes the different scene around, 

And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song 
Which sooth' d that infant with its lulling sound ! 

But the dream changes ; quiet years roll on ; 

That dawn of frail existence fleets away. 
And she beholds beneath the summer sun 

A blessed sight ; a little child at play. 
The soft hght falls upon its golden hair. 

And shows a brow intelligently mild ; 
No more a cipher in this world of care, 

Love cheers and chides that happy conscious 
child. 
No more unheeding of her watchful love, 

Pride to excel, its docile spirit stirs ; 
Regret and hope its tiny bosom move, 

And looks of fondness brightly answer hers ; 
O'er the green meadow, and the broomy hill, 

In restless joy it bounds and darts along ; 
Or through the breath of evening, low and still, 

Carols with mirthful voice its welcome song. 

Again the vision changes ; from her view 

The child's dear love and antic mirth are gone ; 
But, in their stead, with cheek of rose-leaf hue, 

And fair slight form, and low and silvery tone. 
Rises the sweetest spirit thought can call 

From memory's distant worlds — the fairy &irl; 
Whose heart her childish pleasures still enthrall, 

Whose unbound hair still floats in careless curl. 
But in whose blue and meekly lifted eyes, 

And in whose shy, though sweet and cordial 
smile. 
And in whose changeful blushes, dimly rise 

Shadows and lights that were not seen erewhile: 
Shadows and lights that speak of woman's love. 

Of all that makes or mars her fate below ; 
Mysterious prophecies, which time must prove 

More bright in glory, or more dark with woe ! 
And that soft vision also wanders by, 

Melting in fond and innocent smiles away, 
Till the loved real meets the watchful eye 

Of her who thus recall'd a former day ; 
The gentle daughter, for whose precious sake 

Her widow'd heart had struggled with its pain, 
And still through lonely grief refused to break, 

Because thai tie to Earth did yet remain. 
Now, as she fondly gazed, a few meek tears 

Stole down her cheek ; for she that slumber'd 
there. 
The beautiful, the loved of many years, 

A bride betroth'dmust leave her fostering care; 
Woo'd in another's home apart to dwell — 
Oh ! might that other love but half as well ! 

As if the mournful wish had touch' d her heart, 
The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden start ; 
Turn'd, with a dazzled and intense surprise, 
On that fond face her bright, bewilder'd eyes ; 
Gazed round on each familiar object near. 
As though she doubted yet if sense was clear ; 
Cover'd her brow and sigh'd, as though to wake 
Had power some spell of happy thought to break ; 
Then murmur'd, in a low and earnest tone, 
" Oh ! is that blessed dream for ever gone ?" 



THE DREAM 



659 



Strange is the power of dreams ! Who hath 
not felt, 
When in the morning light such visions melt, 
How the veil'd soul, though struggling to be free, 
Ruled by that deep unfathom'd mystery, 
.Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill, 
Whose shadowy influence pursues us still ? 

Sometimes remorse doth weigh our spirits 

down ; 
Some crime committed earns Heaven's angriest 

frown ; 
Some awful sin. in which the tempted heart 
Hath scarce, perhaps, forborne its waking part, 
Brings dreams of judgment ; loud the thunders roll, 
The heavens shrink blacken'd hke a flaming scroll; 
We faint, we die, beneath the aveningrod. 
And vainly hide from our offended God. 
For oh ! though fancy change our mortal lot, 
And rule our slumbers, conscience sleepeth not; 
That strange sad dial, by its own true light, 
Points to our thoughts, how dark soe'er the night. 
Still by our pillow watchful guard it keeps. 
And bids the sinner tremble while he sleeps. 

Sometimes, with fearful dangers doom'd to 

cope, 
'Reft of each wild and visionary hope, 
Stabb'd with a thousand wounds, we struggle still, 
The hand thai tortures, powerless to kill. 
Sometimes 'mid ocean storms, in fearful strife. 
We stem the wave, and shrieking, gasp for life, 
While crowding round us, faces rise and gleam. 
Some known and loved, some, pictures of our 

dream ; 
High on the buoyant waters wildly toss'd — 
Low in its foaming caverns darkly lost — 
Those flitting forms the dangerous hour partake, 
Cling to our aid, or suffer for our sake. 
Conscious of present life, the slumbering soul 
Still floats us onward, as the billows roll, 
Till, snatch'd from death, we seem to touch the 

strand, 
Rise on the shoreward wave, and dash to land ! 
Alone we come : the forms whose wild array 
Gleam' d round us while we struggled, fade away — 
We know not, reck not, who the danger shared, 
But, vaguely dreaming, feel that we are spared. 

Sometimes a grief, of fond affection born. 
Gnaws at our heart, and bids us weep till morn ; 
Some anguish, copied from our waking fears, 
Wakes the eternal fount of human tears. 
Sends us to watch some vision'd bed of death, 
Hold the faint hand, and catch the parting breath. 
Where those we prized the most, and loved the 

best. 
Seem darkly sinking to the grave's long rest ; 
Lo ! in our arms they fade, they faint, they die. 
Before our eyes the funeral train sweeps by ; 
We hear the orphan's sob — the widow's wail — 
O'er our dim senses woful thoughts prevail. 
Till, with a burst of grief, the spell we break. 
And, weeping for th' imagined loss, awake. 

Ah me ! from dreams hke these aroused at 
length. 
How leaps the spirit to its former strength ! 



What memories crowd the newly conscious brain, 
What gleams of rapture, and what starts of pain ! 
Till from the soul the heavy mists stand clear. 
All wanes and fades that seem'd so darkly drear, 
The sun's fair rays those shades of death destroy, 
And passionate thankfulness and tears of joy 
Swell at our hearts, as, gazing on his beam. 
We start, and cry aloud, " Thank Heaven, 'twas 
but a dream !" 

But there are visions of a fairer kind, 
Thoughts fondly cherish'd by the slumbering 

mind. 
Which, when they vanish from the waking brain. 
We close our eyes, and long to dream again. 
Theii- dim voice calls to our forsaken side 
Those who betray'd us, seeming true and tried; 
Those whom the fast receding waves of time 
Have floated from us ; those who in the prime 
And glory of our young life's eagle flight 
Shone round like rays, encircUng us with light. 
And gave the bright similitude of truth 
To fair illusions — vanish'd with our youth. 
They bring again the tryst of early love, 
(That passionate hope, all other hopes above !) 
Bid the pale hair, long shrouded in the grave. 
Round the young head in floating ringlets wave. 
And fill the air with echoes. Gentle words. 
Low laughter, and the singing of sweet birds, 
Come round us then ; and drooping of light boughs. 
Whose shadow could not cool our burning brows. 
And lilac-blossoms, scenting the warm air. 
And long laburnums, fragile, bright, and fair ; 
And murmuring breezes through the green leaves 

straying. 
And rippling waters in the sunshine playing. 
All that around our slumbering sense can fling 
The glory of some half-forgotten spring ! 
They bring again the fond approving gaze 
Of old true friends, who mingled love with praise ; 
When fame (that cold bright guiding star below) 
Took from affection's light a borrow'd glow — 
And, strong in all the might of earnest thought. 
Through the long studious night untired we 

wrought. 
That others might the morning hour beguile. 
With the fond triumph of their wondering smile. 
What though those dear approving smiles be gone. 
What though we strive neglected and alone. 
What though no voice now mourns our hope's 

alloy, 
Nor in the hour of triumph gives us joy ? 
In dreams the days return when this was not. 
When strong affection sooth'd our toilsome lot: 
Cheer'd, loved, admonished, lauded, we aspire, 
And the sick soul regains its former flre. 

Beneath the influence of this fond spell, 
Happy, contented, bless'd, we seem to dwell; 
Sweet faces shine with love's own tender ray. 
Which frown, or boldly turn from us, by day ; 
The lonely orphan hears a parent's voice ; 
Sad childless mothers once again rejoice ; 
The poor deserted seems a happy bride ; 
And the long parted wander side by side. 

Ah, vain deceit ! Awaking with a start, 
Sick grow the beatings of the troubled heart; 



-660 



Caroline norton. 



Silence, like some dark mantle, drops around, 
Quenching th' imagined voice's welcome sound; 
Again the soul repeats its old farewells, 
Again recalls sad hours and funeral knells ; 
Again, as daylight opens on their view, 
The orphan shrinks, the mother mourns anew ; 
Till clear we feel, as fades the morning star. 
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd we are ! 

And other dreams exist, more vague and bright 
Than memoky ever brought to cheer the night ; — 
Most to the young and happy do they come. 
To those who know no shelter but of home ; 
To those of whom the inspired writer spoke. 
When from his Ups the words prophetic broke, 
Which (conscious of the strong and credulous spell 
Experience only in the heart can quell) 
Promised the nearer glimpse of perfect truth 
Not to cold wisdom, but to fervent youth ; 
Each, in their measure, caught its fitful gleams — 
The young saw visions, and the old dream'd 
dreams. 

The young I Oh t what should wandering fancy 

bring 
In life's first spring-time but the thoughts of spring ? 
World without winter, blooming amaranth bowers, 
Garlands of brightness wreath' d from changeless 

flowers ; 
Where shapes like angels wander to and fro, 
TJnwing'd, but glorious, in the noontide glow, 
Which steeps the hills, the dales, the earth, the Sea, 
In one soft flood of golden majesty. 
In this v/orld, — so create, — no sighs nor tears, — 
No sadness brought with lapse of varying years, — 
No cold betrayal of the trusting heart, — 
No knitting up of love fore-doom'd to part,— 
■No pain, deformity, nor pale disease, — 
No wars, — no tyranny, — no fears that freeze 
The rapid current of the restless blood, — 
Nor efTort scorn'd, — nor act misunderstood, — 
No dark remorse for ever-haunting sin, — 
But all at peace without, — at rest within ; 
And hopes which gild thought's wildest waking 

hours, 
Scatter'd around us carelessly as flowers. 

Oh ! Paradise, in vain didst thou depart ; 
Thine image still is stamp'd on every heart ! 
Though mourning man in vain may seek to trace 
The site of that which was his dweUing-place, 
Though the four glittering rivers now divide 
No realms of beauty with their roUing tide, 
Each several life yet opens with the view 
Of that unblighted world where Adam drew 
The breath of being : in each several mind, 
However cramp'd, and fetter'd, and confined, 
The innate power of beauty folded lies, 
And, like a bud beneath the summer skies, 
Blooms out in youth through many a radiant day, 
Though in life's winter frost it dies away. 

From such a vision, bright with all the fame 
Her youth, her innocence, her hope could frame, 
The maiden woke : and, when her shadowy gaze 
Had lost the dazzled look of wild amaze 
Turn'd on her mother when she first awoke. 
Thus to her questioning glance she answering 
spoke : — 



*' Methought, oh '. gentle mother, by thy side 
I dwell no more as now, but through a wide 
And sweet world wander' d ; nor even then alone ; 
For ever in that dream's soft fight stood one, — 
I know not who, — yet most familiar seem'd 
The fond companionship of which I dream'd. 
A brother's love, is but a name to me ; 
A father's, brighten'd not my infancy ; 
To me in childhood's years, no stranger's face 
Took, from long habit, friendship's holy grace ; 
My life hath still been lone, and needed not, 
Heaven knows, more perfect love than was my lot 
In thy dear heart: how dream'd I then, sweet 

mother. 
Of any love but thine, who knew no other? 

" We seem'd, this shadow and myself, to be 
Together by the blue and boundless sea : 
No settled home was present to my thought — 
No other form my clouded fancy brought ; 
This one familiar presence still beguiled 
My very thought, and look'd on me and smiled. 
Fair stretch' d in beauty lay th« glittering strand, 
With low green copses sloping from the land ; 
And tangled underwood and sunny fern, 
And flowers whose humble names none cared to 

learn, 
Small starry wild flowers, white and gold and blue. 
With leaves turn'd crimson by the autumnal hue, 
Bask'd in the fervour of the noontide glow, 
Whose hot rays pierced the thirsty roots below. 
The floating nautilus rose clear and pale, 
As though a spirit trimm'd its fairy sail. 
White and transparent ; and beyond it gleam'd 
Such light as never yet on ocean beam'd: 
Andpink-fipp'd shells, and many-colour'd weeds, 
And long brown bulbous things like jasper beads, 
And glistening pearls in beauty faint and fair. 
And all things strange, and wonderful, and rare, 
Whose true existence travellers make known, 
Seem'd scattered there, and easily my own. 
And then we wove our ciphers in the sands, 
All fondly intertwined by loving hands ; 
And laugh'd to see therustUng snow-white spray 
Creep o'er the names and wash their trace away. 
And the storm came not, though the white foam 
curl'd 

In lines of brightness far along the coast ; 
Though many a ship, with sweUing sails unfurl'd, 

From the mid-sea to sheltering haven cross'd; 
Though the wild billows heaved, and rose, and 
broke. 

One o'er the other with a restless sound, 
And the deep spirit of the wind awoke. 

Ruffling in wrath each glassy verdant mound ; 
While onward roU'd that army of huge waves, 

Until the foremost, with exulting roar, 
Rose, proudly crested, o'er his brother slaves, 

And dash'd triumphant on the groaning shore I 
For then the moon rose up, night's mournful 
queen, 

' Walking with white feet o'er the troubled sea,' 
And all grew still again, as she had been 

Heaven's messenger to bring tranquillity ; 
Till, pale and tender, on the glistening main 
She sank and smiled fike one who loves in vain. 
And still we linger'd by that shadowy strand, 
Happy, yet full of thought, hand link'd in hand ; 



THE DREAM. 



661 



The hush'd waves rippling softly at our feet, 
The night-breeze freshening o'er the summer's 

heat ; 
With our hearts beating, and our gazing eyes 
Fix'd on the star-light of those deep blue skies, 
Blessing ' the year, the hour, the place, the time ;' 
While sounded, faint and far, some turret's mid- 
night chime. 

" It pass'd, that vision of the ocean's might ! 

I know not how, for in my slumbering mind 
There was no movement, all was shifting light. 
Through which we floated with the wandering 
wind ; 
And, still together, in a different scene. 
We look'd on England's woodland, fresh and 
green. 

" No perfume of the cultured rose was there. 
Wooing the senses with its garden smell, — 
Nor snow-white lily, — called so proudly fair. 
Though by the poor man's cot she loves to 

dwell, 
Nor finds his gentle garden scant of room 
To bid her stately buds in beauty bloom ; — 
Nor jasmin, with her pale stars shining through 
The myrtle darkness of her leaf's green hue, — 
Nor heliotrope, whose gray and heavy wreath 
Mimics the orchard blossoms' fruity breath — 
Nor clustering dahlia, with its scentless flowers 
Cheating the heart through autumn's faded 

hours, — 
Nor bright chrysanthimum, whose train' d array 
Still makes the rich man's winter path look gay, 
And bows its hardy head when wild winds blow, 
To free its petals from the fallen snow ; — 
Nor yet carnation ;" — 

(Thou, beloved of all 
The plants that thrive at art or nature's call, 
B7 one who greets thee with a weary sigh 
As the dear friend of happy days gone by ; 
By one who names thee last, but loves thee first, 
Of all the flowers a garden ever nursed ; 
The m^ute remembrancer and gentle token 
Of links which heavy hands have roughly broken, 
Welcomed through many a summer with the same 
Unalter'd gladness as when first ye came, 
And welcomed still, though — as in latter years 
We often welcome pleasant things — with tears!) 

I wander ! In the dream these had no place — 
Nor sorrow : — all was nature's freshest grace. 

*' There, wild geranium, with its woolly stem 

And aromatic breath, perfumed the glade ; 
And fairy speedwell, like some sapphire gem, 

Lighted with purple sparks (he hedge-row's 
shade ; 
And woodbine, with her tinted calyxes. 

And dog-rose glistening with the dews of morn. 
And tangled wreaths of tufted clematis, 

Whose blossoms pale the careless eye may 
scorn, 
(As green and light her fairy mantles fall 
To hide the rough hedge or the crumbhng wall,) 
But in whose breast the laden wild-bees dive 
For the best riches of their teeming hive : 



1 " There, sprang the sunny cricket ; there, was 
; spread 

; The fragile silver of the spider's thread, 
j Stretching from blade to blade of emerald grass, 
Unbroken, till some human footstep pass; 
I There, by the rippling stream that murmured on, 
I Now seen, now hidden — half in light, half sun — 
i The darting dragon-fly, with sudden gleam, 
■ Shot, as it went, a gold and purple beam ; 
I And the fish leap'd within the deeper pool. 
And the green trees stretch' d out their branches- 
cool. 
Where many a bird hush'd in her peopled nest 
The unfledged darlings of her feather'd brea&t. 
Listening her mate's clear song, in that sweet 

grove 
Where all around breathed happiness and love ! 

" And while we talk'd the summer hours flew 
fast, 
As hours may fly, with those whose love is 
young; 
Who fear no future, and who know no past. 

Dating existence from the hope that sprung 
Up in their hearts with such a sudden light, 
That all beyond shows dark and blank as night, 

" Until methought we trod a wide flat heath. 

Where yew and cypress darkly seem'd to wave 
O'er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death 

Seem'd here to make a garden of the grave I 
All that is holy, tender, full of grace. 

Was sculptured on the monuments around. 
And many a line the musing eye could trace, 

Which spoke unto the heart without a sound. 
There lay the warrior and the son of song. 

And there — in silence till the judgment-day — 
The orator, whose all-persuading tongue 

Had moved the nations with resistless sway ; 
There slept pale men whom science taught to 
climb 

Restlessly upward all their labouring youth ; 
Who left, half conquer'd, secrets v/hich in time 

Burst on mankind in ripe and glorious truth. 
He that had gazed upon the steadfast stars. 

And could foretell the dark eclipse's birth. 
And when red comets in their blazing cars 

Should sweep above the awed and troubled' 
earth : — 
He that had sped brave vessels o'er the seas, 

Which swiftly bring the wanderer to his home,, 
Uncanvass'd ships, which move without a breeze. 

Their bright wheels dashing through the ocean 
foam : — 
All, who in this life's bounded brief career 

Had shone amongst or served their fellow-men. 
And left a name embalm'd in glory here. 

Lay calmly buried on that magic plain. 
And he who wander'd with me in my dream. 

Told me their histories as we onward went, 
Till the grave shone with such a hallow'd beam. 

Such pleasure with their memory seem'd blent. 
That, when we look'd to Heaven, ourupward eyes 
With no funereal sadness mock'd the skies ! 

" Then, change of scene, and time, and place once 
more ; 
And by a Gothic window, richly bright, 



662 



CAROLINE NORTON, 



Whose slain'd armorial bearings on the floor 

Flung the quaint tracery of their colour'd light, 
We sate together ; his most noble head 

Bent o'er the storied tome of other days, 
And still he commented on all we read, 

And taught me what to love, and what to praise. 
Then Spenser made the summer day seem brief, 

Or Milton sounded with a loftier song, 
Then Cowper charm'd, with lays of gentle grief, 

Or rough old Dryden roll'd the hour along. 
Or, in his varied beauty dearer still, 
Sweet Shakspeare changed the world around at 

will ; 
And we forgot the sunshine of that room 
To sit with Jacquez in the forest gloom ; 
To look abroad with Juliet's anxious eye 
For her boy-lover 'neath the moonlight sky; 
Stand with Macbeth upon the haunted heath. 
Or weep for gentle Desdemona's death ; 
Watch, on bright Cydnus' wave, the glittering 

sheen 
And silken sails of Egypt's wanton Queen; 
Or roam with Ariel through that island strange 
Where spirits, and not men, were wont to range, 
Still struggling on through brake, and bush, and 

hollow. 
Hearing that sweet voice calling — 'Follow! 
follow !' 

" Nor were there wanting lays of other lands. 
For these were all familiar in his hands : 
And Dante's dream of horror work' d its spell, — 
And Petrarch's sadness on our bosom fell, — 
Andprison'd Tasso's — he, the coldly-loved, 
The madly-loving ! he, so deeply proved 
By many a year of darkness, like the grave. 
For her who dared not plead, or would not save. 
For her -who thought the poet's suit brought 

shame, 
Whose passion hath immortalized her name ! 
And Egmont, with his noble heart betray'd, — 
And Carlos, haunted by a murder'd shade, — 
And Faust's strange legend, sweet and wondrous 

wild. 
Stole many a tear : — creation's loveliest child ! 
Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret, 
Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet ? 

" Then, through the lands we read of, far away, 
The vision led me all a summer's day : 
And we look'd round on southern Italy, 

Where her dark head the graceful cypress rears 
In arrowy straightness and soft majesty, 

Afid the sun's face a mellower glory wears ; 
Bringing, where'er his warm hght richly shines. 
Sweet odours from the gum -distilling pines ; 
And casting o'er white palaces a glow. 
Like morning's hue on mountain-peaks of snow. 

"' Those palaces ! how fair their columns rose ! 
Their courts, cool fountains, and wide porticos ! 
And ballustrated roofs, whose very form 
Told what an unknown stranger was the storm ! 
In one of these we dwelt : its painted walls 

A master's hand had been employed to trace ; 
Its long cool range of shadowy marble halls 

Was fiU'd with statues of most living grace ; 



While on its ceiling roU'd the fiery car 

Of the bright day-god, chasing night afar, — 

Or .love's young favourite, toward Olympus' 

height 
Soar'd with the eagle's dark majestic flight, — 
Or fair Apollo's harp seem'd freshly strung. 
All Heaven group'd round him, listening while he 

sung. 

"So, in the garden's plann'd and planted 
bound 
AH wore the aspect of enchanted ground ; 
Thick orange-groves, close arching over head, 
Shelter'd the paths our footsteps loved to tread ; 
Or ilex-trees shut out, with shadow sweet, 
Th' oppressive splendour of the noontide heat. 
Through the bright vista, at each varying turn, 
Gleam'd the white statue, or the graceful urn ; 
And, paved with many a curved and twisted line 
Of fair Mosaic's strange and quaint design. 
Terrace on terrace rose, with steep so slight, 
That scarce the pausing eye inquired the height, 
Till stretch'd beneath in far perspective lay 
The glittering city and the deep blue bay ! 
Then as we turn'd again to groves and bowers, 
(Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers,) 
The sultry day was cheated of its force 
By the sweet winding of some streamlel^s courser 
From sculptured arch, and ornamented walls. 
Rippled a thousand tiny waterfalls. 
While here and there an open basin gave 
Rest to the eye and freshness to the wave ; 
Here, high above the impri?on'd waters, stood * 
Some imaged Na'iad, guardian of the flood ; 
There, in a cool and grptto-like repose. 
The sea-born goddess from her shell arose ; 
Or river-god his fertile urn display'd. 
Gushing at distance through the lone arcade, — 
Or Triton, lifting his wild conch on high, 
Spouted the silver tribute to the sky, — 
Or, lovelier still, (because to nature true. 
Even in the thought creative genius drew,) 
Some statue-nyrnph, her bath of beauty o'er, 
Stood gently bending by the rocky shore. 
And, like Bologna's sweet and graceful dream, 
From her moist hair wrung out the living stream. 

" Bright was the spot ! and still we linger'd on 
Unwearied, till the summer day was done ; 
Till he, who, when the morning dew was wet, 
In glory rose — in equal glory set. 
Fair sank his light, unclouded to the last. 
And o'er that land its glow of beauty cast ; 
And the sweet breath of evening air went forth 
To cool the bosom of the fainting earth ; 
To bid the pale-leaved olives lightly wave 
Upon their seaward slope (whose waters lave 
With hstless gentleness the golden strand, 
And scarcely leave, and scarce return to land ;) 
Or with its wings of freshness, wandering round, 
Visit the heights of many a villa crown'd. 
Where the still pine and cypress, side by side. 
Look fi-om their distant hills on Ocean's tide. 

" The cypress and the pine ! Ah, still I see 
These thy green children, lovely Italy ! 
Nature's dear favourites, allow'd to wear 
Their summer hue throughout the circHng year 



THE DREAM. 



663 



And oft, when wandering out at even-time 
To watch the sunsets of a colder clime, 
As the dim landscape fades and grows more faint, 
Fancy's sweet power a differenl scene shall paint ; 
Enrich with deeper tints the colours given 
To the pale beauty of our English heaven, — 
Bid purple mountains rise among the clouds. 
Or deem their mass some marble palace 

shrouds, 
Trace on the red horizon's level line, 
In outlines dark, the high majestic pine, — 
And hear, amid the groups of English trees, 
HiK sister cypress murmuring to the breeze '. 

"Never again shall evening, sweet and still, 
Gleam upon river, mountain, rock, or hill, — 
Never again shall fresh and budding spring. 
Or brighter summer, hue of beauty bring, 
In' this, the clime where 'tis my lot to dwell. 
But shall recall, as by a magic spell, 
Thy scenes, dear land of poetry and song ! 
Bid thy fair statues on my memory throng; 
Thy glorious pictures gleam upon my sight 
Like fleeting shadows o'er the summer light ; 
And send my haunted heart to dwell once more, 
Glad and entranced by thy dehghtful shore — 
Thy shore, where rolls that blue and tideless sea, 
Bright as thyself, thou radiant Italy ! 

" And there (where Beauty's spirit sure had 

birth, 
Though she hath wandered since upon the earth, 
And scatter'd, as she pass'd, some sparks of 

thought. 
Such as of old her sons of genius wrought. 
To show what strength the immortal soul can 

wield 
E'en here, in this its dark and narrow field. 
And fills us with a fond inquiring thirst 
To see that land which claim'd her triumphs first) 
Music was brought — with soft impressive power — 
To fill with varying joy the varying hour. 
We welcomed it ; for welcome still to all 
It comes, in cottage, court, or lordly hall ; 
And in the long bright summer evenings, oft 
We sate and listened to some measure soft 
From many instruments ; or, faint and lone, 
(Touch'd by his gentle hand, or by my own,) 
The little lute its chorded notes would send 
Tender and clear ; and with our voices blend 
Cadence so true, that, when the breeze swept by, 
One mingled echo floated on its sigh ! 

"And still as day by day we saw depart, 
I was the living idol of his heart : 
How to make joy a portion of the air 
That breathed around me, seem'd his only care. 
For me the harp was strung, the page was turn'd ; 
For me the morning rose, the sunset burn'd ; 
For me the spring put on her verdant suit ; 
For me the summer flower, the autumn fruit ; 
The very world seem'd mine, so mighty strove 
For my contentment, that enduring love. 

" I see him still, dear mother ! Still I hear 
That voice so deeply soft, so strangely clear ; 
Still in the air wild wandering echoes float, 
And bring my dream's sweet music note for note ! 



Oh! shall those sounds no more my fancy bless. 
Which fill my heart and on my memory press? 
Shall I no more those sunset clouds behold, 
Floating like bright transparent thrones of gold? 
The skies, the seas, the hills of glorious blue ; 
The glades and groves, with glories shining 

through ; 
The bands of red and purple, richly seen 
Athwart the sky of pale, faint, gem-like green; 
When the breeze slept, the earth lay hush'd and 

still, 
When the low sun sank slanting from the hill, 
And slow and amber-ting'd the moon uprose, 
To watch his farewell hour in glory close ? 
Is all that radiance past — gone by for ever — 

And must there in its stead for ever be 
The gray, sad sky, the cold and clouded river, 

And dismal dwelHngs by the wintry sea? 
E'er half a summer, altering.day by day, 
In fickle brightness, here, hath pass'd away ! 
And was that form (whose love might still sustain) 
Nought but a vapour of the dreaming brain? — 
Would I had slept for ever !" 

Sad she sigh'd ; 
To whom the mournful mother thus replied: — 

" Upbraid not Heaven, whose wisdom thus 
would rule 
A world whose changes are the soul's best school : 
All dream like thee, and 'tis for mercy's sake 
That those who dream the wildest, soonest wake ; 
All deem perfection's system would be found 
In giving earthly sense no stint or bound ; 
All look for happiness beneath the sun. 
And each expects what God hath given to none. 

" In what an idle luxury of joy 
Would thyspoil'd heart its useless hours employ! 
In what a selfish loneliness of light 
Wouldst thou exist, read we thy dream aright ! 
How hath thy sleeping spirit broke the chain 
Which knits thy human lot to others' pain. 
And made this world of peopled millions seem 
For thee and for the lover of thy dream ! 

" Think not my heart vv'ith cold indiflference 

heard 
The various feelings which in thine have stirr'd, 
Or that its sad and weary currents know 
Faint sympathy, except for human woe : 
Well have the dormant echoes of my breast 
Answer'd the joys thy gentle voice express'd ; 
Conjured a -vision of the stately mate 
With whom the flattering vision link'd thy fate ; 
And follow' d thee through grove and woodlan^ 

wild, 
Where so much natural beauty round thee smiled. 

" What man so worldly-wiSe, or chill'd by age, 
Who, bending o'er the faint descriptive page. 
Recalls not such a scene in some far nook — 
(Whereon his eyes, perchance, no more shall 

look ;) 
Some hawthorn copse, some gnarl'd majestic tree, 
The favourite play-place of his infancy ? 
Who has not felt for Cowper's sweet lament, 
When twelve years' course their cruel change had 

sent ; 



664 



CAROLINE NORTON, 



When his fell'd poplars gave no further shade, 
And low on earth the blackbird's nest was laid ; 
When in a desert sunshine, bare and blank, 
Lay the green field and river's mossy bank ; 
And melody of bird or branch no more 
Rose with the breeze that swept along the shore ? 

' ' Few are the hearts, (nor theirs of kindUest 

frame,) 
i On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim ; 
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing — 
A bank of primroses in early spring — 
The tender scent which hidden violet's yield— 
The sight of cowshps in a meadow-field — 
Or young laburnum's pendant yellow chain — 
May bring the favourite play -place back again ! 
Our youthful mates are gone ; some dead, some 

changed, 
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged ; 
Ourselves, perhaps, more alter'd e'en than they — 
But there still blooms the blossom-showering 

May 
There still along the hedge-row's verdant line 
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine ; 
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves 
Shout — the gay image of our former selves ; 
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands, 
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands, 
, And plucks the ripest berries from the bough — ' 
Which tempts a different generation now ! 

" What though no real beauty haunt that spot, 
By graver minds beheld and noticed not? 
Can we forget that once to our young eyes 
It wore the aspect of a paradise ? 
No ; still around its hallowed precinct lives 
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives ; 
The man recals the feelings of the boy. 
And clothes the n^eanest flower with freshness 
and with joy. 

" Nor think by elder hearts forgotten quite 
Love's whisper'd words ; youth's sweet and 

strange delight ! 
They live — though after-memories fade away ; 
They live to cheer life's slow declining day ; 
Haunting the widow by her lonely hearth, 
As, meekly smiling at her children's mirth. 
She spreads her fair thin hands toward the fire, 
To seek the warmth their slackened veins require : 
Or gladdening her to whom Heaven's mercy 

spares 
Her old companion with his silver hairs ; 
And while he dozes — changed, and dull, and 

weak — 
And his hush'd grandchild signs, but dares not 
^ speak, — 

Bidding her watch, with many a tender smile, 
The wither' d form which slumbers all the while. 

" Yes ! sweet the voice of those we loved ! the 
tone 
Which cheers our memory as we sit alone, 
And will not leave us ; the o'er-mastering force, 
Whose under-current's strange and hidden course 
Bids some chance word, by colder hearts forgot, 
K-fiturn — and still return — yet weary not 



The ear which wooes its sameness ! How, when 

Death 
Hath stopp'd with ruthless hand sonie precious 

breath. 
The memory of the voice he hath destroy'd 
Lives in our souls, as in an aching void ! 
How, through the varying fate of after-years, 
When stifled sorrow weeps but casual tears, 
If some stray tone seem like the voice we knew, 
The heart leaps up with answer faint and true ! 
Greeting again that sweet, long-vanish'd sound, 
As, in earth's nooks of ever-haunted ground, 
Strange aqcident, or man's capricious will. 
Wakes the lone echoes and they answer still ! 

" Oh ! what a shallow fable cheats the age. 
When the lost lover, on the motley stage, 
Wrapp'd from his mistress in some quaint dis- 
guise, 
Deceives her ears, because he cheats her eyes ! 
Rather, if all could fade which charm'd us first,— 
If, by some magic stroke, some plague-spot cursed. 
All outward semblance left the form beloved 
A wreck unrecognised, and half disproved, 
At the dear sound of that familiar voice 
Her waken' d heart should tremble and rejoice, 
Leap to its faith at once, — and spurn the doubt 
Which, on such showing, barr'd his welcome out ! 

"And if even words are sweet, what, what is 
song, 
When lips we love, the melody prolong ? 
How thrills the soul, and vibrates to that lay, 
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away ! 
How, to the cadence of the simplest words 
That ever hung upon the wild harp's chords. 
The breathless heart lies listening ; as it felt 
All life within it on that music dwelt. 
And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power 
By its own will, for that enchanted hour! 

" Ay ! then to those who love the science well, 
Music becomes a passion and a spell ! 
Music, the tender child of rudest times, 
The gentle native of all lands and climes ; 
Who hymns alike man's cradle and his grave, 
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave ; „ 
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills 
With wild Tyrolean echoes sweetly fills ; 
Inspires the Indian's low monotonous chant, 
Weaves skilful melodies for luxury's haunt ; 
And still, through all these changes, lives the 

same, 
Spirit without a home, without a name. 
Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin, 
To prove some innate harmony within 
Our listening souls ; and lull the heaving breast 
With the dim vision of an unknown rest ! 

"But, dearest child, though many a joy be 
given 
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven, — 
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth, 
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth, — 
Though, with the flag of hope and triumph hung 
High o'er our heads, we start when life is young, 
And onward cheer'd, by sense, and sight, and 

sound, 4 

Like a launch'd bark, we enter with a bound ; 



THE DREAM, 



665 



Yet must the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall, 
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for all. 
Happy are they who leave the harbouring land 
Not for a summer voyage, hand in hand. 
Pleasure's Ught slaves : but with an earnest eye 
Exploring all the future of their sky ; 
That so, when Life's career at length is past, 
To the right haven they may steer at last. 
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale. 
Lay by the oar, and furl the slacken'd sail, — 
To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore 
Where vexing storms can never reach them more ! 

" Wouldst thou be singled out by partial 
Heaven 
The ONE to whom a cloudless lot is given ? 
Look round the world, and see what fate is there, 
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care : 
Though bright they bloom to empty outward 

show, 
There lurks in each some canker-worm of woe ; 
Still by some thorn the onward step is cross'd. 
Nor least repining those who're envied most : 
The poor have struggling, toil, and wounded pride, 
Which seeks, and seeks in vain, its rags to hide ; 
The rich, cold jealousies, intrigues, and strife. 
And heart- sick discontent which poisons life ; 
The loved are parted by the hand of Death, 
The hated live to curse each other's breath : 
The wealthy noble mourns the want of heirs ; 
While, each the object of incessant prayers. 
Gay, hardy sons, around the widow's board. 
With careless smiles devour her scanty hoard ; 
And hear no sorrow in her stifled sigh. 
And see no terror in her anxious eye, — 
While she in fancy antedates the time 
When, scatter'd far and wide in many a clime, 
These heirs to nothing but their father's name 
Must earn their bread, and struggle hard for fame ; 
To sultry India sends her fair-hair' d boy — 
Sees the dead desk another's youth employ — 
And parts with one to sail the uncertain main. 
Never perhaps on earth to meet again ! 

" Nor e'en does love, whose fresh and radiant 

, beam 

Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream, 
Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown, 
But rather brings strange sorrows of its own. 
Various the ways in which our souls are tried ; 
Love often fails where most our faith relied ; 
Some wayward heart may win, without a thought. 
That which thine own by sacrifice had bought ; 
May carelessly aside the treasure cast. 
And yet be madly worshipp'd to the last ; 
Whilst thou, forsaken, grieving, left to pine, 
Vainly may'st claim his plighted faith as thine ; 
Vainly his idol's charms with thine compare, 
And know thyself as young, as bright, as fair ; 
Vainly in jealous pangs consume thy day, 
And waste the sleepless night in tears away ; 
Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile 
In the cold world, heart-brsken all the while, 
Or from its glittering and inquiet crowd. 
Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crush'd and bow'd, 
Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone, 

Mock'd by a claim which gives thee not thine own, 
84 



Which leaves thee bound through all thy blighted 

youth 
To him whose perjured soul hath broke its truth ; 
While the just world, beholding thee bereft, 
Scorns — not his sip — but thee, for being left ! 

"Ah ! never to the sensualist appeal. 
Nor deem his frozen bosom aught can feel. 
Affection, root of all fond memories. 
Which bids what once hath charm'd for evBT 

please. 
He knows not : all thy beauty could inspire 
Was but a sentiment of low desire : 
If from thy cheek the rose's hue be gone, 
How should love stay which loved for that alone ? 
Or, if thy youthful face be still as bright 
As when it first entranced his eager sight. 
Thou art the same ; there is thy fault, thy crime, 
Which fades the charms yet spared by rapid time. 
Talk to him of the happy days gone by, 
Conceal'd aversion chills his shrinking eye : 
While in thine agony thou still dost rave, 
Impatient wishes doom thee to the grave ; 
And if his cold and selfish thought had power 
T' accelerate the fatal final hour, 
The silent murder were already done. 
And thy white tomb would glitter in the sun. 
What wouldst thou hold by ? What is it to him 
That for his sake thy weeping eyes are dim? 
His pall'd and wearied senses rove apart. 
And for his heart — thou never hadst his heart. 

" True, there is better love, whose balance just 
Mingles soul's instinct with our grosser dust, 
And leaves affection, strengthening day by day, 
Firm to assault, impervious to decay. 
To such, a star of hope thy love shall be 
Whose steadfast light he still desires to see ; 
And age shall vainly mar thy beauty's grace, 
Or wantons plot to steal into thy place. 
Or wild temptation, from her hidden bowers, 
Fhng o'er his path her bright but poisonous 

flowers, — 
Dearer to him than all who thus beguile. 
Thy faded face, and thy familiar smile ; 
Thy glance, which still hath welcomed him for 

years, 
Now bright with gladness, and now dim with 

tears ! 
And if (for we are weak) division come 
On wings of discord to that happy home. 
Soon is the painful hour of anger past. 
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last; 
And, like some river's bright abundant tide 
Which art or accident hath forced aside, 
The well-springs of affection, gushing o'er, 
Back to their natural channels flow once more. 

" Ah ! sad it is when one thus link'd departs \ 
When death, that mighty severer of true hearts, 
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth, 
And leaves pale sorrow weeping by the hearth ! 
Bitter it is to wander there alone. 

To fill the vacant place, the empty chair, 
With a dear vision of the loved one gone. 

And start to see it vaguely melt in air ! 
Bitter to find all joy that once hath been 

Double its value when 'tis pass'd away, — 



666 



CAROLINE NORTON 



To feel the blow which time should make less keen 

Increase its burden each successive day, — 
To need good counsel, and to miss the voice, 

The ever trusted, and the ever true. 
Whose tones were wont to cheer our faltering 
choice. 

And show what holy virtue bade us do, — 
To bear deep wrong and bow the widow' d head 

In helpless anguish, no one to defend; 
Or worse, — in heu of him, the kindly dead. 

Claim faint assistance from some lukewarm 
friend, — 
Yet scarce perceive the extent of all our loss 
Till the fresh tomb be green with gathering moss — 
Till many a morn have met our sadden'd eyes 

With none to say "Good morrow;" — many 
an eve 
Send its red glory through the tranquil skies. 

Each bringing with it deeper cause to grieve ! 

" This is a destiny which may be thine — 
The common grief: God will'd it should be mine : 
Short was the course our happy love had run. 
And hard it was to say ' Thy will be done !' 

" Yet those whom man, not God, hath parted, 
know 
A heavier pang, a more enduring woe; 
No softening memory mingles with their tears, 
Still the wound rankles on through dreary years, 
Still the heart feels, in^ bitterest hours of blame, 
It dares not curse the long-familiar name ; 
Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day, 
From weaker ties turns helplessly away. 
Sick for the smiles that bless'd its home of yore. 
The natural joys of life that come no more ; 
And, all bewildered by the abyss, whose gloom 
Dark and impassable as is the tomb, 
Lies stretch'd between the future and the past, — 
Sinks into deep and cold despair at last. 

" Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death. 
Each varied ill that waits on human breath, 
Rather than bid thee linger out thy life 
In the long toil of such unnatural strife. 
To wander through the world unreconciled, 
Heart weary as a spirit-broken child, 
And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven 
If thou could'st die — forgiving and forgiven, — 
Or with a feverish hope, of anguish born, 
(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn 
Of all the cruel foes who 'twixt ye stand, 
Holding thy heartstrings with a reckless hand,) 
Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, 
And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong ! 
Into the aching depths of thy poor heart 

Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, 
And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart. 

And burn like fire through thy bewilder'd brain. 
Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal 
To teach thy fellow-creature how to feel, — 
Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears, — 
Recall the hopes, the influences of years, — ' 
Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, 
Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing 

wound, — 
Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow's truth, 
By all the softening memories of youth — 



By every hope that cheer' d thine earlier day— 
By every tear that washes wrath away — 
By every old remembrance long gone by — 
By every pang that makes thee yearn to die ; 
And learn at length how deep and stern a blov? 
Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show ! 

" Oh ! weak to suffer, savage to inflict. 

Is man's comminghng nature ; hear him now 
Some transient trial of his life depict, 

Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow ; 
See him shrink back from sickness and from pain, 
And in his sorrow to his God complain ; 
' Remit my trespass, spare my sin,' he cries, 
' All-merciful, Almighty, and All-wise ; 
Quench this affliction's bitter whelming tide, 
Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side :' — 
— 'And rises from that mockery of prayer 
To hale some brother-debtor to despair ! 

" Mav this be spared thee ! Yet be sure, my 
child, 
(Howe'er that dream thy fancy hath beguiled,) 
Some sorrow lurks to cloud thy future fate ; 
Thy share of tears, — come early or come late,— 
Must still be shed ; and 'twere as vain a tiling 
To ask of Nature one perpetual spring 
As to evade those sad autumnal hours. 
Or deem thy path of life should bloom, all flow- 
ers." 

She ceased : and that fair maiden heard the 
truth 
With the fond passionate despair of youth, 
Which, new to sufl^ering, gives its sorrow vent 
In outward signs and bursts of wild lament : — 

" If this be so, then, mother, let me die 
Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky ! 
Let me die young ; before the holy trust 
In human kindness crumbles into dust ; 
Before I suffer what I have not earn'd, 
Or see by treachery my truth return'd; 
Before the love I live for, fades away ; 
Before the hopes I cherish'd most, decay ; 
Before the withering touch of fearful change 
Makes some familiar face look cold and strange, 
Or some dear heart, close knitted to my own, 
By perishing, hath left me more alone ! 
Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain 
Better than all which threats if I remain ; 
While my soul, freed from ev'ry chance of ill, 
Soars to that God whose high mysterious will 
Sent me, fjredoom'd to grief, with wandering feet, 
To grope my way through all this fair deceit !" 

Her parent heard the words with grieved amaze. 
And thus return'd, with calm reproving gaze ; — 

"Blaspheme not Heaven with rash impatient 

speech, 
Nor deem, at thine own hour, its rest to reach. 
Unhappy child ! The full appointed time 
Is His to choose ; and when the sullen chime, 
And deep-toned striking of the funeral bell. 
Thy fate to earthly ears shall sadly tell. 
Oh ! may the death thou talk'st of as a boon, 
Find thee prepared, — nor come even then too 

soon ! 



THE DREAM, 



6&J 



. " True, ere thou meet'st that long and dream- 
less sleep, 
Thy heart must ache — thy weary eyes must weep : 
It is our human lot ! The fairest child 
That e'er on loving mother brightly smiled, — 
Most watch'd, most tended — ere his eyelids close 
Hath had his little share of infant woes, 
And dies familiar with a sense of grief, 
Though for all else his hfe hath been too brief ! 
But shall we therefore, murmuring against God, 
Question the justice of his chastening rod, 
And look to earthly joys as though they were 
The prize immortal souls were given to share ? 

" Oh ! were such joys and this vain world alone 
The term of human hope — where, where would 
' be 

The victims of some tyranny unknown, 

Who sank, still conscious that the mind was free ? 
They that have lain in dungeons years on years. 
No voice to cheer their darkness, — they whose 
pain 
Of horrid torture wrung forth blood with tears, 

Murder'd, perhaps, for some rapacious gain, — 
They who have stood, bound to the martyr's stake. 
While the sharp flames ate through the blister- 
ing skin, — 
They that have bled for some high cause's sake, — 

They that have perish'd for another's sin, 
And from the scaffold to that God appeal' d 
To whom the naked heart is all reveal'd, 
Against the shortening of life's narrow span 
By the bhnd rage and false decree of man ? 
And where obscurer sufferers — they who slept 

And left no name on history's random page, — 
But in God's book of reckoning, sternly kept, 
Live on from year to year, from age to age ? 
The poor — the labouring poor ! whose weary lives. 
Through many a freezing night and hungry day. 
Are a reproach to him who only strives 
In luxury to waste his hours away, — 
The patient poor ! whose insufficient means 

Make sickness dreadful, yet by whose low bed 
Oft in meek prayers some fellow-sufferer leans, 
And trusts in Heaven while destitute of bread ; 
The workhouse orphan, left without a friend ; 

Or weak forsaken child of want and sin. 
Whose helpless life begins, as it must end, 

By men disputing who shall take it in ; 
Who clothe, who aid that spark to linger here. 

Which for mysterious purpose God hath given 
To struggle through a day of toil and fear, 
And meet him — with the proudest — up in Hea- 
ven ! 
These were, and are not: — shall we therefore 

deem 
That they have vanish'd Hke a sleeper's dream ? 
Or that one half creation is to know 
Luxurious joy, and others only woe. 
And so go down into the common tomb. 
With none to question their unequal doom ? 
Shall we give credit to a thought so fond ? 
Ah ! no — the world beyond — the world beyond ! 
There, shall the desolate heart regain its own ! 
There, the oppress'd shall stand before God's 

throne ! 
There, when the tangled web is all explain'd, 
I Wrong suffer' d, pain inflicted, grief disdain' d, 



Man's proud mistaken judgments and false scorn 
Shall melt like mists before the uprising morn, 
And holy truth stand forth serenely bright. 
In the rich flood of God's eternal light ! 

'•Then shall the Lazarus of the earth have 
rest — 
The rich man judgment — and the grieving breasi 
Deep peace for ever. Therefore look thou not 
So much to what on earth shall be thy lot. 
As to thy fate hereafter, — to that day 
When hke a scroll this world shall pass away, 
And what thou here hast done, or here enjoy 'd, 
Import but to thy soul: — all else destroy'd ! 

" And have thou faith in human nature still ; 
Though evil thoughts abound, and acts of ill; 
Though innocence in sorrow shrouded be, 
And tyranny's strong step walk bold and free ! 
For many a kindly generous deed is done 
Which leaves no record underneath the sun,^ 
Self-abnegating love and humble worth. 
Which yet shall consecrate our sinful earth ! 
He that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, 
Who sets brief storms against long summer-days, 
Hath a sick judgment. Shall the usual joy 
Be all forgot, and nought our minds employ, 
Through the long course of ever-varying years, 
But temporary pain and casual tears ? 
And shall we all condemn, and all distrust, 
Because some men are false and some unjust? 
Forbid it Heaven ! far better 'twere to be 
Dupe of the fond impossibility 
Of hght and radiance which thy vision gave 
Than thus to hve suspicion's bitter slave. 
Give credit to thy mortal brother's heart 
For all the good that in thine own hath part, 
And, cheerfully as honest prudence may, 
Trust to his proffer'd hand's protecting stay : 
For God, who made this teeming earth so full, 
And made the proud dependent on the dull — 
The strong upon the weak — thereby would show 
One common bond should link us all below. 

" And visit not with a severer scorn 
Faults, whose deep root was with our nature bom 
From which — though others woo'd thee just as 

vain — 
Thou, differently tempted, didst abstain : 
Nor dwell on points of creed — assuming right 
To judge how holy in his Maker's sight 
Is he who at a different altar bends ; 
For hence have risen the bitterest feuds of friends, 
The wildest wars of nations ; age on age 
Hath desecrated thus dark history's page ; 
And still (though not, perhaps, with fire and 

sword) 
Reckless we raise ' The banner of the Lord t' 
Mock Heaven's calm mercy by the plea we make. 
That all is done for gentle Jesus' sake, — 
Disturb the consciences of weaker men, — 
Employ the scholar's art, the bigot's pen, — 
And rouse the wrathful and the spirit-proud 
To language bitter, vehement, and loud, 
Whose unconvincing fury wounds the ear, 
And seeking, with some sharp and haughty sneer, 
How best the opposing party may be stung,— 
Pleads for religion with a devil's tongue ! 



668 



CAROLINE NORTON, 



' Oh ! shall God tolerate the tiieanest prayer 

That humbly seeks his high supernal throne, 
And man — presumptuous pharisee — declare 

His fellow's voice less welcome than his own ? 
Is it a theme for wild and warring words 

How best to satisfy the Maker's claim ? 
In rendering to the Lord what is the Lord's, 

Doth not the thought of violence bring shame ? 
Think ye he gave the branching forest-tree 

To furnish fagots for the funeral pyre ? 
Or bid his sunrise light the world, to see 

Pale tortured victims perish there by fire ? 
No ! oft on earth, dragg'd forth in pain to die. 

The heretic may groan — the martyr bleed — 
But, set before his Sovereign Judge on high, 

'Tis man's offence condemns him, not his creed. 
His first commandment was to worship Him : 

His next — to love the creature he hath made : 
How blind the eyes of those who read, how dim. 

Who see not here religious fury stay'd ! 
From the proud Aa7/- fulfilment of his law 

Sternly he turns away his awful face. 
Nor will contentment from their service draw. 

Who fail to grant a fellow creature grace. 
Haply the days of martyrdom are past. 

But still we see, without a visible end. 
The bitter warfare of opinion last, 

Tho' God hath will'd that man should be man's 
friend. 
Therefore do thou, e'er yet thy youthful heart 

Be tinged with their revilings, safe retreat. 
And in those fierce discussions bear no part, — 

Odious in all — in woman most unmeet, — 
But in the still dark night, and rising day. 
Humbly collect thy thoughts, and humbly pray. 

" And be not thou cast down, because thy lot 
The glory of thy dream resembleth not. 
Not for herself was woman first create. 
Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate. 
Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends. 
The first, the last, the faithfulest of friends ; 
Still finds her place in sickness or in woe. 
Humble to comfort, strong to undergo ; 
Still in the depth of weeping sorrow tries 
To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes ! 
And doubt not thou, — (although at times de- 
ceived. 
Outraged, insulted, slander'd, crush'd, and 

grieved ; 
Too often made a victim or a toy. 
With years of sorrow for an hour of joy ; 
Too oft forgot midst pleasure's circling wiles, 
Or only valued for her rosy smiles, — ) 
That, in the frank and generous heart of man. 
The place she holds accords with Heaven's high 

plan ; 
Still, if from wandering sin reclaim'd at all, 
He sees in her the angel of recall ; 
Still, in the sad and serious hours of life, 
Turns to the sister, mother, friend, or wife ; 
Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride 
His faithful partner by his calm fireside ; 
And oft, when barr'd of fortune's fickle grace, 
Blank ruin stares him darkly in the face. 
Leans his faint head upon her kindly breast, 
And owns her power to soothe him into rest, — 



Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth 
To cheer his toils and trials upon earth ! 

" Sure it is much, this delegated power 
To be consoler of man's heaviest hour ! 
The guardian angel of a life of care, 
Allow'd to stand 'twixt him and his despair! 
Such service may be made a holy task ; 
And more, 'twere vain to hope, and rash to ask. 
Therefore, oh ! loved and lovely, be content. 
And take thy lot, with joy and sorrow blent. 
Judge none ; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
As knowing judgment shall be pass'd on thee 
Here and hereafter ; so, still undismay'd. 
And guarded by thy sweet thoughts' tranquil 

shade, 
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
Their light across thy path while life was new, 
Thou shalt move sober on, — expecting less. 
Therefore the more enjoying, happiness." 

There was a pause : then, with a tremulous smile, 
The maiden turn'd and press'd her mother's 
hand : — 

' ' Shall I not bear what thou hast borne e'erwhile? 
Shall I, rebellious, Heaven's high will with- 
stand ? 

No ! cheerly on, my wandering path I'll take, 

Nor fear the destiny I did not make : 

Though earthly joy grow dim — though pleasure 
waneth — 

This thou hast taught thy child, that God re- 
maineth !" 

And from her mother's fond protecting side 
She went into the world a youthful bride. 



THE CREOLE GIRL; 

OR, THE PHYSICIAN'S STORY. 



Ella etait de ce monde, oA les plus belles choses 

Ont le pire destin ; 
Et Rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les Roses, 

L'espace d'un matin) 



She came to England from the island clime 
Which lies beyond the far Atlantic wave ; 

She died in early youth — before her time — 
" Peace toher broken heart, and virgin grave!" 

II. 

She was the child of passion, and of shame, 
English her father, and of noble birth ; 

Though too obscure for good or evil fame. 
Her unknown mother faded from the earth. 

III. 

And what that fair West Indian did betide. 
None knew but he, who least of all might tell,— 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 



669 



But that she lived, and loved, and lonely died. 
And sent this orphan child with him to dwell. 

IV. 

Oh ! that a fair and innocent young face 
Should have a poison in its looks alone, 

To raise up thoughts of sorrow and disgrace 
And shame most bitter, although not its own ? 

V. 

Cruel v/ere they who flung that heavy shade 
Across the Hfe whose days did but begin ; 

Cruel were they who crush'd her heart, and made 
Her youth pay penance for his youth's wild sin; 

VI. 

Yet so it was ; — among her father's friends 
A cold compassion made contempt seem light, 

But, in "the world," no justice e'er defends 
The victims of their tortuous wrong and right : — 

VII. 

And '' moral England," striking down the weak, 

And smiling at the vices of the strong, 
On her, poor child ! her parent's guilt would 
wreak, 
And that which was her grievance, made her 
wrong. 

VIII. 

The world she understood not ; nor did they 
Who made that world, — her, either, understand ; 

The very glory of her features' play 
Seem'd Uke the language of a foreign land ; 

IX. 

The shadowy feelings, rich and wild and warm, 
That glow'd and mantled in her lovely face, — 

The slight full beauty of her youthful form. 
Its gentle majesty, its pliant grace, — 

X. 

The languid lustre of her speaking eye, 

The indolent smile of that bewitching mouth, 

(Which more than all betrayed her natal sky, 
And left us dreaming of the sunny South,) — 

XL 

The passionate variation of her blood, 

Which rose and sank, as^rise and sink the 
waves, 
With every change of her most changeful mood, 
Shocked sickly fashion's pale and guarded 
slaves. 

XII. 

And so in this fair world she stood alone, 
An alien 'mid the ever-moving crowd, 

A wandering stranger, nameless and unknown, 
Her claim to human kindness disallow'd. 

XIII. 

But oft would passion's bold and burning gaze. 

And curiosity's set frozen stare'. 
Fix on her beauty in those early days, 

And coarsely thus her loveliness declare : 



XIV. 



Which she would shrink from, as the gentle 
plant. 

Fern-leaved Mimosa, folds itself away ; 
Suffering and sad ; — for easy 'twas to daunt 

One who on earth had no protecting stay. 

XV. 

And often to her eye's transparent hd 
The unshed tears would rise with sudden at&Tt, 

And sink again, as though by reason chid. 
Back to their gentle home, her wounded heart ; 

XVI. 

Even as some gushing fountain idly wells 
Up to the prison of its marble side. 

Whose power the mountain wave forever quells,-' 
So rose her tears — so stemm'd by virgin pride. 

XVII. 
And so more lonely each succeeding day, 

As she her lot did better understand. 
She lived a life which had in it decay, 

A flower transplanted to too cold a land, — 

XVIII. 
Which for a while gives out a hope of bloom, 

Then fades and pines, because it may not feel 
The freedom and the warmth which gave it room 

The beauty of its nature to reveal. 

XIX. 

For vainly would the heart accept its lot 
And rouse its strength to bear avow'd contempt ; 

Scorn will be felt as scorn, — deserved or not, — 
And from its bitter spell none stand exempt. 

XX. 

There is a basiHsk power in human eyes 
When they would look a fellow-creature down, 

'Neath which the faint soul fascinated lies. 
Struck by the cold sneer or the with' ring frown. 

XXI. 

But one there was, among that cruel crowd, 
Whose nature /iaZ/rebell'd against the chain 

Which fashion flung around him ; though too 
proud 
To own that slavery's weariness and pain. 

XXII. 

Too proud ; perhaps too weak ; for custom still 
Curbs with an iron bit the souls born free ; 

They start and chafe, yet bend them to the vnll 
Of this most nameless ruler, — so did he. 

XXIII. 

And even unto him the worldly brand 
Which rested on her, half her charm effaced ; 

Vainly all pure and radiant did she stand, — 
Even unto him she was a thing disgraced. 

XXIV. 

Had she been early doom'd a cloister'd nun, 
To Heaven devoted by a holy vow — 

His union with that poor deserted one 
Had seem'd not more impossible than now. 



670 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



XXV. 

He could have loved her — fervently and well ; 

But still the cold world with its false allure, 
Bound his free Hking in an icy spell, 

And made its whole foundation insecure. 

XXVI. 

But not like meaner souls, would he, to prove 

A vulgar admiration, her pursue ; 
For though his glances after her would rove, 

As something beautiful, and strange, and new, 

XXVII. 

They were withdrawn if but her eye met his. 
Or, for an instant if that light remain'd, 

They soften'd into gentlest tenderness, 
As asking pardon that his look had pain'd. 

XXVIII. 

And she was nothing unto him, — nor he 

Aught unto her ; but each of each did dream 

In the still hours of thought, when we are free 
To quit the real world for things which seem. 

XXIX. 
When in his heart love's folded wings would stir, 

And bid his youth choose out a fitting mate, 
Against his will his thoughts roam'd back to her. 

And all around seem'd blank and desolate. 

XXX. 

When, in his worldly haunts, a smother'd sigh 
Told he had won some lady of the land, 

The dreaming glances of his earnest eye 
Beheld far off the Creole orphan stand ; 

XXXI. 

And to the beauty by his side he fi-oze. 

As though she were not fair, nor he so young, 

And turn'd on her such looks of cold repose 
As check'd the trembling accents of her tongue, 

XXXII. 

And bid her heart's dim passion seek to hide 
Its gathering strength, although the task be pain. 

Lest she become that mock to woman's pride— 
A wretch that loves unwoo'd, and loves in vain. 

XXXIII. 
So in his heart she dwelt, — as one may dwell 

Upon the verge of a forbidden ground ; 
And oft he struggled hard to break the spell 

And banish her, but vain the effort found ; 

XXXIV. 
For still along the winding way which led 

Into his inmost soul, unbidden came 
Her haunting form, — and he was visited 

By echoes soft of her unspoken name, 

XXXV 
Through the long night, when those we love seem 
near. 
However cold, however far away. 
Borne en the wings of floating dreams, which 
cheer 
And gives us strength to meet the struggling 
day. 



XXXVI. 

And when in twilight hours she roved apart, 
Feeding her love-sick soul with visions fair, 

The shadow of his eyes was on her heart. 
And the smooth masses of his shining hair 

XXXVII. 

Rose in the glory of the evening light. 
And, where she wander'd, glided evermore, 

A star which beam'd upon herworld's lone night, 
Where nothing glad had ever shone before. 

XXXVIII. 

But vague and girlish was that love, — no hope. 
Even of familiar greeting, ever cross'd 

Its innocent, but, oh ! most boundless scope ; 
She loved him, — and she knew her love was lost. 

XXXIX. 

She gazed on him, as one from out a bark, 
Bound onward to a cold and distant strand, 

Some lovely bay, some haven fair may mark, 
Stretching far inward to a sunnier land ; 

XL. 

Who, knowing he must still sail on, turns back 
To watch with dreaming and most mournful 
eyes 

The ruffling foam which follows in his track, 
Or the deep starlight of the shoreless skies. 

XLL 
Oh ! many a hopeless love like this may be, — 

For love will live that never looks to whi ; 
Gems rashly lost in passion's stormy sea, 

Not to be lifted forth when once cast in ! 



PART II. 



So time roU'd on, till suddenly that child 
Of southern clime and feelings, droop'd and 
pined ; 
Her cheek wax'd paler, and her eye grew wild, 
And from her youthful form all strength de« 
clined. 

II. 

'Twas then I knew her ; late and vainly call'd, 
To " minister unto a mind diseased," — 

When on her heart's faint sickness all things 
pall'd. 
And the deep inward pain was never eased : 

III. 

Her step was always gentle, but at last 

It fell as Hghtly as a wither' d leaf 
In autumn hours ; and wheresoe'er she pass'd 

Smiles died away, she look'd so full of grief. 

And more than ever from that world, where still 
Her father hoped to place her, she would shrink; 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 



671 



Loving to be alone, her thirst to fill 
From the sweet fountains where the dreamers 
drink. 

V. 

One eve, beneath the acacia's waving bough, 
Wrapt in these lonely thoughts she sate and 
read; 

Her dark hair parted from her sunny brow, 
Her graceful arm beneath her languid head ; 

VI. 
And droopingly and sad she hung above 

The open page, whereon her eyes were bent, 
With looks of fond regret and pining love ; 

Nor heard my step, so deep was she intent. 

VII. 

And when she me perceived, she did not start. 
But lifted up those soft dark eyes to mine, 

And smiled, (that mournful smile which breaks 
the heart !) 
Then glanced again upon the printed line. 

vin. 

"What readest thou?" I ask'd. With fervent 
gaze, 
■ As though she would have scann'd my inmost 
soul. 
She turn'd to me, and, as a child obeys 

The accustom'd question of revered control, 

IX. 
She pointed to the title of that book, 

(Which, bending down, I saw was " CoraUe,") 
Then gave me one imploring piteous look, 
And tears, too long restrain'd, gush'd fast and 
free. 

X. 
It was a tale of one, whose fate had been 

Too like her own to make that weeping strange ; 
Like her, transplanted from a sunnier scene ; 

Like her, alldull'd and blighted by the change. 

XI. 

No further word was breathed between us two ; — 
No confidence was made to keep or break ; — 

But since that day, which pierced my soul quite 
through. 
My hand the dying girl would faintly take, 

XII. 

And mvrrmur, as its grasp (ah ! piteous end !) 
Return'd the feeble pressure of her own, 

" Be with me to the last, — for thou, dear friend, 
Hast all my struggles, all my sorrow known !" 

XIII. 

She died ! — The pulse of that untrammell'd heart 
Fainted to stillness. Those most glorious eyes 

Closed on the world where she had dwelt apart. 
And her cold bosom heaved no further sighs. 

XIV. 

She died ' — and no one mourn' d, except her sire. 
Who for a while look'd out with eyes more dim ; 

lione was her place beside his household fire, 
Vanish'd the face that ever smiled on him. 



XV. 
And no one said to him — ' ' Why mournest thou ?" 
Because she was the unknown child of shame ; 
(Albeit her mother better kept the vow 
Of faithful love, than some who keep their 
fame.) 

XVI. 
Poor mother, and poor child ! — unvalued lives ! 
Wan leaves that perish' d in obscurest shade I 
While round me still the proud world stirs and 
strives, 
Say, shall I weep that ye are lowly laid ? 

XVII. 

Shall 7 mourn for ye ? No ! — and least for thee, 

Young dreamer, whose pure heart gave way 

before 

Thy bark was launch'd upon love's stormy sea, 

Or treachery wreck'd it on the farther shore. 

XVIII. 
Least, least of all for thee ! Thou art gone hence t 
Thee never more shall scornful looks oppress. 
Thee the world wrings not with some vain pre- 
tence, 
Nor chills thy tears, nor mocks at thy distress, 

XIX. 
From man's injustice, from the cold award 

Of the unfeeling, thou hast pass'd away ; 
Thou'rt at the gates of fight where angels guard 

Thy path to realms of bright eternal day. 

XX. 
There shall thy soul its chains of slavery burst. 
There, meekly standing before God's high 
throne, 
Thou'lt find the judgments of our earth reversed. 
And answer for no errors but thine own. 



«^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul 
Be one which all good thoughts control ;. 
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright, 
And the gleams of golden light 
Fall upon thy silken hair. 
And thy forehead, broad and fair ; 
Something of a cold disgust, 
(Wonderful, and most unjust,) 
Something of a sullen fear 
Weighs my heart when thou art near ; 
And my Soul, which cannot twine 
Thought or sympathy with thine. 
With a coward instinct tries 
To hide from thy enamour' d eyes, 
Wishing for a sudden blindness 
To escape those looks of kindness ; 
Sad she folds her shivering wings 
From the love ihy spirit brings. 



67a 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



Like a chained thing, caress' d 

By the hand it knows the best, 

By the hand which, day by day, 

Visits its imprison'd stay, 

Bringing gifts of fruit and blossom 

From the green earth's plenteous bosom ; 

All but that for which it pines 

In those narrow close confines, 

With a sad and ceaseless sigh — 

Wild and winged liberty ! 

Can it be, no instinct dwells 
In th' immortal soul, which tells 
That thy love, oh ! human brother, 
Is unwelcome to another ? 
Can the changeful wavering eye, 
Raised to thine in forced reply, — 
Can the cold constrained smile, 
Shrinking from thee all the while, — 
Satisfy thy heart, or prove 
Such a likeness of true love ? 

Seems to me, that I should guess 
By what a world of bitterness, 
By what a gulf of hopeless care, 
Our two hearts divided were : 
Seems to me that I should know 
All the dread that lurk'd below, 
By the want of answer found 
In the voice's trembling sound ; 
By the unresponsive gaze ; 
By the smile which vainly plays, 
In whose cold imperfect birth 
Glows no fondness, lives no mirth ; 
By the sigh, whose different tone 
Hath no echo of thine own ; 
By the hand's cold clasp, which still 
Held as not of its free will. 
Shrinks, as it for freedom yearn'd;— 
That my love was unreturn'd. 

When thy tongue (ah! woe is me!) 
Whispers love-vows tenderly, 
Mine is shaping, all unheard. 
Fragments of some withering word, 
Which, by its complete farewell, 
Shall divide us like a spell ! 
And my heart beats loud and fast, 
Wishing that confession past ; 
And the tide of anguish rises, 
Till its strength my soul surprises, 
And the reckless words, unspoken, 
Nearly have the silence broken, 
With a gush like some wild river, — 
" Oh ! depart, depart for ever !" 

But my faltering courage fails, 
And my drooping spirit quails ; 
So sweet-earnest looks thy smile 
Full of tenderness the while. 
And with such strange pow'r are gifted 
The eyes to which my own are lifted ; 
So my faint heart dies away, 
And my hp can nothing say, 
And I long to be alone, — 
For I weep when thou art gone ! 

Yes, I weep, but then my soul. 
Free to ponder o'er the whole, 



Free from fears which check' d its thought. 

And the pain thy presence brought, 

Whispers me the useless lie, — 

" For thy love he will not die. 

Such pity is but vanity." 

And I bend my weary head 

O'er the tablets open spread. 

Whose fair pages me invite 

All I dared not say to write ; 

And my fingers take the pen, 

And my heart feels braced again 

With a resolute intent ; — 

But, ere yet that page be sent, 

Once I view the written words 

Which must break thy true heart's chorda ; 

And a vision, piercing bright, 

Rises on my coward sight, 

Of thy fond hand, gladly taking 

What must set thy bosom aching ; 

While too soon the brittle seal 

Bids the page the worst reveal. 

Blending in thy eager gaze — 

Scorn, and anguish, and amaze. 

Powerless, then, my hand reposes 
On the tablet which it closer, 
With a cold and shivering sense 
Born of truth's omnipotence : 
And my weeping blots the leaves. 
And my sinking spirit grieves. 
Humbled in that bitter hour 
By very consciousness of power! 
What am I, that I should be 
Such a source of woe to thee ? 
What am I, that I should dare 
Thus to play with thy despair, 
And persuade myself that thou 
Wilt not bend beneath the blow ? 

Rather should my conscience move 
Me to think of this vain love, 
Which my life of peace beguiles, 
As a tax oa foolish smiles, 
Which — like light not meant for one 
Who, wandering in the dark alone, 
Hath yet been tempted by its ray 
To turn aside and lose his way — 
Binds me, by their careless sin 
To take the misled wanderer in. 

And I praise thee, as I go, 
Wandering, weary, full of woe, 
To my own unwilling heart ; 
Cheating it to take thy part 
By rehearsing each rare merit 
Which thy nature doth inherit. 
To myself their list I give, ' 
Most prosaic, positive : — 
How thy heart is good and true. 
And thy face most fair to view ; 
How the powers of thy mind 
Flatterers in the wisest find, 
And the talents God hath given 
Seem as held in trust for Heaven ; 
Labouring on for noble ends,— - 
Steady to thy boyhood's friends, — 
Slow to give, or take, offence, — 
Full of earnest eloquence, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



673 



Hopeful, eager, gay of cheer, — 
Frank in all thy dealings here, — 
Ready to redress the wrong 
Of the weak against the strong, — 
Keeping up an honest pride 
With those the world hath deified, 
But gently bending heart and brow 
To the helpless and the low ; — 
How, in brief, there dwells in thee 
All that's generous and free. 
All that may most aptly move 
My spirit to an answering love. 

But in vain the tale is told ; 

Still ray heart lies dead and cold. 

Still it wanders and rebels 

From the thought that thus compels, 

And refiises to rejoice 

Save in unconstrained choice. 

Therefore, when thine eyes shall read 

This, my book, oh take thou heed ! 

In the dim lines written here. 

All shall be explained and clear ; 

All my lips could never speak 

When my heart grew coward-weak,— 

All my hand could never write, 

Tho' I planned it day and night,— 

All shall be at length confest. 

And thou'lt forgive, — and let me rest ! 

None but thou and I shall know 

Whose the doom, and whose the woe; 

None but thou and I shall share 

In the secret printed there ; 

It shall be a secret still, 

Tho' all look on it at will ; 

And the eye shall read in vain 

What the heart cannot explain. 

Each one, baffled in his turn. 

Shall no more its aim discern, 

Than a wanderer who might look 

On some wizard's magic book. 

Of the darkly-worded spell 

Where deep-hidden meanings dwell. 

Memory, fancy, they shall task 

This sad riddle to unmask, — 

Or, with bold conjectural fame, 

Fit the pages with a name ; — 

But nothing shall they understand, 

And vainly shall the stranger's hand 

Essay to fling the leaves apart. 

Which bear my message to thy heart ! 



THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO 



Thot7 ! whose impassion' d face 

The painter loves to trace. 
Theme of the sculptor's art and poet's story- 
' How many a wand'ring thought 

Thy loveliness hath brought, 
Warming the heart with its imagined glory ! 

II. 
Yet, was it history's truth, 
That tale of wasted youth, 
Of endless grief, and love forsaken pining ? 

85 



What weri. thou, thou whose woe 
The old traditions show 
With fame's cold lightaround thee vainly shining? 

III. 

Didst thou indeed sit there 

In languid lone despair — 
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying— 

Thy soft and earnest gaze 

Watching the lingering rays 
In the far west, where summer-day was dying-^ 

IV. 

While with low rustling wings. 

Among the quivering strings 
The murmuring breeze faint melody was making, 

As though it wooed thy hand 

To strike with new command, 
Or mourn'd with thee because thy heart was 
breaking ? 



Didst thou, as day by day 

Roll'd heavily away. 
And left thee anxious, nerveless, and dejected, 

Wandering thro' bowers beloved — 

Roving where he had roved — 
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected? 

VI, 

Didst thou, with fond wild eyes 

Fix'd on the starry skies. 
Wait feverishly for each new day to waken — 

Trusting some glorious morn 

Might witness his return, 
Unwilling to beheve thyself forsaken ? 

VII. 
And when conviction came. 
Chilling that heart of flame. 
Didst thou, O saddest of earth's grieving daugh* 
ters ! 
From the Leucadian steep 
Dash, with a desperate leap, 
And hide thyself within the whelming waters? 

VIII. 

Yea, in their hollow breast 

Thy heart at length found rest ! 
The ever-moving waves above thee closing : 

The winds, whose ruffling sigh 

Swept the blue waters by, 
Disturb'd thee not ! — thou wert in peace reposing! 

IX. 

Such is the tale they tell ! 
Vain was thy beauty's spell — 

Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire- 
Though many a happy band 
Rung with less skilful hand 

The borrowed love-note of thy echoing lyre. 



Fame, to thy breaking heart 

No comfort could impart. 
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing ; 

One grief, and one alone. 

Could bow thy bright head down — 
Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing ! 



674 



CAROLINE NORTON, 



THE POET'S CHOICE. 

I. 
'TwAS in youth, mat hour of dreaming ; 
Round me, visions fair were beaming, 
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming, 

Such as start to birth 
When the wandering restless mind, 
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find 
Creatures of a fairy kind 

Realized on earth ! 

II. 

Then, for me, in every dell 
Hamadryads seem'd to dwell 
(They who die, as poets tell, 

Each with her own tree ;) 
And sweet mermaids, low reclining, 
Dim light through their grottos shining. 
Green weeds round their soft limbs twining, 

Peopled the deep sea. 

III. 

Then, when moon and stars were fair, 
Nymph-hke visions fiU'd the air. 
With blue wings and golden hair 

Bending from the skies ; 
And each cave by echo haunted 
In its depth of shadow granted. 
Brightly, the Egeria wanted, 

To my eager eyes. 

IV. 

But those glories pass'd away ; 
Earth seem'd left to dull decay, 
And my heart in sadness lay, 

Desolate, uncheer'd ; 
Like one wrapt in painful sleeping, 
Pining, thirsting, waking, weeping, 
Watch thro' life's dark midnight keeping. 

Till THY form appear'd! 

V. 
Then my soul, whose errmg measure 
Knew not where to find true pleasure, 
Woke and seized the golden treasure 

Of thy human love ; 
And, looking on thy radiant brow. 
My lips in gladness breathed the vow 
Which angels, not more fair than thou, 

Have register' d above. 

VI. 

And now I take my quiet rest. 
With my head upon thy breast, 
I will make no further quest 

In fancy's realms of light ; 
Fay, nor nymph, nor winged spirit. 
Shall my store of love inherit ; 
More thy mortal charm doth merit 

Than dream, however bright. 

VII. 
And my soul, hke some sweet bird 
Whose song at summer eve is heard. 
When the breeze, so hghtly stirr'd, 

Leaves the branch unbent, — 



Sits and all triumphant sings, 
Folding up her brooding wings. 
And gazing out on earthly things 

With a calm content. 



THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLE- 
MAGNE. 



Among other relics preserved in the Cathedral 
at Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory hunting-horn of 
Charlemagne. It is massive and heavy, and the 
attempt of the guide to sound it (for the amuse- 
ment of tourists and strangers) is singularly un- 
successful, the note produced being the most faint 
and lugubrious which it is possible to conceive. 



Sound not the Horn ! — the guarded relic keep : 
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep : 
His life it gladden' d — to his hfe belong'd, — 
Pause — ere thy hp the royal dead hath wrong' d. 
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand ; 
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. 
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, 
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore, — 
Not such the sound ! Far over hill and dell 
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell ; 
Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall, 
From castle crag to roofless ruin'd hall, 
Down the ravine's precipitous descent, 
Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went, 
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond, 
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond: 

Pause ! — the free winds that joyous blast have 
borne : — 
Dead is the hunter ! — silent be the horn ! 

Sound not the horn ! Bethink thee of the day 
When to the chase an emperor led the way ; 
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, 
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time. 
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast, 
Glad, active, vigorous, — who is now at rest : — 
How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, 
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky; 
Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting 

steed 
(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong 

speed,) 
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn. 
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn ! 

Ah ! let no touch the ivory tube profane 
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne ; 
Let not Hke blast by meaner lips be blown. 
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down ! 

Or, following to his palace, dream we now 
Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough, 
But woman's love ! Her offering this, per 

chance, — 
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance, 
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes. 
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



675 



We see her not ; — no mournful angel stands 
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands; 
But fancy brings a vision to our view — 
A woman's form, the trusted and the true: 
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare. 
Patient to watch through many a day of care, 
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile. 
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile ; 
Even such I see ! Her maidens, too, are there, 
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air ; 
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear, 
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear, 
She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still, 
For one faint blast that dies along the hill. 
Up, up, she springs ; her young head backward 

thrown ; 
"He comes! my hunter comes! — Mine own — 

mine own !" 

She loves, and she is loved — her gift is worn — 
'Tis fancy, all ! — And yet — lay down the horn! 

Love — life — what are ye ? — since to love and live 
No surer record to our times can give ! 
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name 
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame ; 
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, 
And dim tradition dreameth by his side. 
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls. 
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls. 
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome 

guest. 
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest ; — 
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound. 
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound 
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air. 
Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer ; 
Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and 

high, 
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky, — 
Where glimmers down, with various- painted ray, 
A prison' d portion of God's glorious day, — 
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn. 
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn! 



TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR. 

Rosy child, with forehead fair. 

Coral lip, and shining hair, 

In whose mirthful clever eyes 

Such a world of gladness lies ; 

As thy loose curls idly straying 

O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing, 

Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine 

With the glittering light of thine, — 

Who shall say, who gazes now, 

Which is fairest, she or thou ? 

In sweet contrast are ye met. 
Such as heart could ne'er forget : 
Thou art brilliant as a flower, 
Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; 
Merry as a singing-bird. 
In the green wood sweetly heard ; 
Restless as if fluttering wings 
Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 



Ignorant of all distress, 

Full of childhood's carelessness. 

She is gentle ; she hath known 
Something of the echoed tone 
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, 
In this world of many woes. 
On her brow such shadows are 
As the faint cloud gives the star, 
Veiling its most holy hght, 
Tho' it still be pure and bright ; 
And the colour in her cheek 
To the hue on thine is weak. 
Save when flush'd with sweet surprise, 
Sudden welcomes light her eyes ; 
And her softly chisel' d face 
(But for living, moving grace) 
Looks hke one of those which beam 
In th' Italian painter's dream, — 
Some beloved Madonna, bending 
O'er the infant she is tending ; 
Holy, bright, and undefiled 
Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 
Who, tho' painted strangely fair. 
Seems but made for holy prayer, 
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal. 
And fondness such as angels feel; 
Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
With serenest majesty ! 

Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
May that brightly budding life, 
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — 
Bring its store of hoped-for joy. 
Mother, to thy laughing boy! 
And the good thou dost impart 
Lie deep-treasured in his heart. 
That, when he at length shall strive 
In the bad world where we live, 
Thy sweet name may still be blest 
As one who taught his soul true rest ! 
Maiden- Bradley, 1838. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 

I. 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest -born, first hope, and dearest treasure. 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Nor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

II. 

Faithfiil and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that lean'd to Heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given — 

Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 

And meekly cheerful — such wert thou, my child ! 

III. 

Not willing to be left ; still by my side 
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was 
dying ;— 



676 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleased to glide 

Thro' the darli room where I was sadly lying, 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek. 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 

IV. 

O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; hke a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade, — 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower, — 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to 
bind. 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 



Then thou, my merry love ; — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing 
glancing. 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladden' d earth ! 

VL 

Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of joy ! 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
soundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy, 
And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
boundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply , 
Lurk' din the laughter of thy dark blue eye ! 

VII. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warm- 
ing ; 
The coaxing smile ; — the frequent soft caress ; — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 
Again my heart a new aiTection found. 
But thought that love with thee had reach'd its 
bound. 

VIII. 
At length thou, earnest ; thou, the last and least ; 
Nick-named " The Emperor" by thy laughing 
brothers. 
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast. 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile: — 

IX. 
And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders — curling lip — and dauntless brow — 
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's 
dreaming : 
And proud the Ufting of thy stately head, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

X. 
Different from both ! Yet each succeeding claim, 

I, that all other love had been forswearing, 
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 

Nor injured either, by this love's comparing. 
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 
But in the mother's heart, found room for all ! 



THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE. 

L 

When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours 

The blind man sought thy love to gain, 
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 

New freshen'd by the summer rain : 
They said thy movements, swift yet soft, 

Were such as make the winged dove 
Seem, as it gently soars aloft. 

The image of repose and love. 

II. 

They told me, too, an eager crowd 

Of wooers praised thy beauty rare, 
But that thy heart was all too proud 

A common love to meet or share. 
Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn, 

But in thy coy and virgin breast 
Dwelt preference, not of passion born. 

The love that hath a holier rest ! 

III. 
Days came and went ; — thy step I heard 

Pause frequent, as it pass'd me by : — 
Days came and went ; — thy heart was stirr'd, 

And answer'd to my stifled sigh ! 
And thou didst make a humble choice. 

Content to be the blind man's bride, 
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice. 

And own'd no joy on earth beside. 

IV. 

And well by that sweet voice I knew 

(Without the happiness of sight) 
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few,— 

Thy smile, most innocently bright: 
I knew how full of love's own grace 

The beauty of thy form must be ; 
And fancy idolized the face 

Whose loveliness I might not see! 

V. 

Oh ! happy were those days, beloved ! 

I almost ceased for light to pine 
When thro' the summer vales we roved, 

Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. 
Thy soft " Good night" still sweetly cheer'd 

The unbroken darkness of my doom ; 
And thy " Good morrow, love," endear'd 

Each sunrise that return'd in gloom ! 

VI. 

At length, as years roll'd swiftly on, 

They spoke to me of time's decay — 
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone. 

And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray. 
Ah ! then I hless'd the sightless eyes 

Which could not feel the deepening shade, 
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 

Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 

VII. 

/saw no paleness on thy cheek, 

No lines upon thy forehead smooth, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



677 



But still the blind man heard thee speak 
In accents made to bless and soothe : 

Still he could feel thy guiding hand 
As thro' the woodlands wild we ranged, — 

Still in the summer light could stand, 
And know thy heart and voice unchanged, 

VIII. 
And still, beloved, till life grows cold, 

We'll wander 'neath a genial sky, 
And only know that we are old 

By counting happy years gone by : 
For thou to me art still as fair 

As when those happy years began, — 
When first thou cam'st to soothe and share 

The sorrows of a sightless man ! 

IX. 
Old Time, who changes all below. 

To wean men gently for the grave. 
Hath brought us no increase of woe, 

And leaves us all he ever gave : 
For I am still a helpless thing, 

Whose darken' d world is cheer' d by thee — 
And thou art she whose beauty's spring 

The blind man vainly yearn'd to see \ 



THE FALLEN LEAVES, 



We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children at our play, 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way : 
Right merrily we hunt them down, ' 

The autumn winds and we, 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifta lie, 

Or sunbeams gild the tree : 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where wither'd boughs are strown ; 
Nor past nor future checks oiir aong— 

ThjB jpresent is our own. 



II. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When Hope (who wearies at the last) 

First spreads her eagle wing. 
We tread with steps of conscious strength 

Beneath the leafless trees. 
And the colour kindles on our cheek 

As blows the winter breeze ; 
While, gazing towards the cold gray sky, 

Clouded with snow and rain. 
We wish the old year all past by, 

And the young spring come again,. 

III. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In manhood's haughty prime — 
When first our pausing hearts begin 

To love " the olden time ;" 
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think 

How many a year hath pass'd 
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees 

Our footsteps wander'd last; 
And old companions — now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead — 
Come round us, as those autumn loaves 

Are crush'd beneath our tread. 

IV. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In our own autumn day — 
And, tott'ring on with feeble steps, 

Pursue our cheerless way. 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost ; 
Nor forward — for we may not live 

To see our new hope cross'd: 
But on we go — the sun's faint beam 

A feeble warmth imparts — 
Childhood without its joy returns— 

The present fills our hearts ! ' 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Robert Pollok was born in 1799, at Eagles- 
ham, in Renfrewshire, — where his parents were 
occupied in agricultural pursuits. He gave early 
promise of the ability for which he was afterwards 
distinguished, and his friends determined to edu- 
cate him for the church. He was accordingly en- 
tered at the University of Glasgow, where he ap- 
plied himself with ardour to the study of theology ; 
but had scarcely commenced the exercise of his 
professional dutieS) when his health became so 
seriously impaired, that a visit to the south of Eu- 
rope was recommended as the only means of pre- 
serving his life. In August, 1827, he quitted Scot- 
land, and proceeded to Southampton, with a view 
of embarking for Italy. His malady, however, 
continued to increase, and in the September of 
that year he died, at Shirley Common. His early 
death is to be lamented ; for probably a wider in- 
tercourse with mankind would not only have ma- 
tured his natural talents, but would have produced 
a healthier state of mind as well as body . " Retired 
in voluntary loneliness," he saw only that which 
is cheerless in Nature, and depressing in Reli- 
gion :— 

" To pleasure deaf. 

And joys of common men, working liis way 

With mighty energy, not uninspired, 

Through all the mines of thought ; reckless of pain, 

And weariness, and wasted health." 

Soon after the death of the writer, his poem, 
" The Course of Time," attracted very general 
attention. He had previously published two stories 
in prose, " Ralph Gemmel," a tale for youth, 
and "The Persecuted Family," a narrative of 
the sufferings of the Presbyterians, during the 
reign of Charles the Second. He was, how- 
ever, beyond the influence of criticism, when 
his book became largely the subject of it. It has 
been highly lauded, — we think too highly ; and 
find it difficult to account for the popularity it has 
obtained. The poem is in blank verse ; and is 
nearly as long as the " Paradise Lost." Its as- 
pect is, therefore, uninviting ; yet that it has been 
extensively read cannot be doubted, — several edi- 
tions having from time to time appeared. If we 
■ may not describe the author as of a sickly mind, 
we perceive abundant proof that he was of a dis- 
eased constitution. He arrays religion in dark 
robes, and considers it unnecessary to portray her 



features as both gentle and beautiful. ' ' Her ways 
are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are 
peace." The Poet, however, exerts himself to 
show how rugged he can render the one, and how 
gloomy he can make the other. His volume, 
from beginning to end, is an awful picture of 
wrath and vengeance ; it contains little to cheer, 
and nothing to gladden ; and would tempt the 
reader to imagine that man was created only to be 
tormented. 

Such is unhappily too much the mode with 
Poets who occupy themselves with the treatment 
of sacred subjects. Instead of striving to direct 
and control, they labour either to subdue or crush 
the natural sensations and desires of man. They, 
therefore, clip the wings of their own fancy : and, 
if they soar, it is with the painful flutter of a. 
wounded bird. Rehgious poetry is, for the most 
part, prejudicial to the cause it professes to advo- 
cate. It may influence the head ; but it rarely 
touches the heart. Men are drawn from low 
thoughts and vicious habits, far less by fear than 
persuasion. If Religion be in " Gorgon terrors 
clad," and "circled with avengeful band," the 
effect produced must be unnatural and transitory. 
The Poets, therefore, who so introduce, never 
recommend it. Such a course is to be deprecated 
the more, because the very opposite is so accessi- 
ble. The best auxiliaries to piety are abundant 
throughout Nature ; the themes that most readily 
present themselves to the Poet are those which, 
by the surest and safest way, lead the heart to vir- 
tue, — and they are all graceful, and beautiful, and 
cheerful. There are, undoubtedly, many glori- 
ous exceptions to the rule we have ventured to 
lay down : but we believe they are not to be found 
among writers who have exclusively devoted 
themselves to the treatment of Religion, inverse. 
Religion, therefore, is deprived of one of its most 
powerful and effective advocates. It is made 
most influential, indeed, by those who are indi- 
rectly its supporters — who describe natural ob- 
jects, and excite love as well as veneration, by 
leading the mind through Nature up to Nature's 
God; — "the meanest flower that blows" has 
been made to teach a lesson; and he best in- 
structs the reason, and directs the heart, who 
finds 

"Good in every thing." 



(678) 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



679 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



BOOK I. 



ANALYSIS. 

The author invokes the Eternal Spirit to inspire his 
song, that he may sing " the Course of Time," 
" the second birth, and final doom of man," 
" the essential truth — time gone, the righteous 
saved, the wicked damned, and Providence ap- 
proved." 

Long after time had ceased and Eternity had rolled 
on its periods, numbered only by God alone, a 
stranger spirit arrives "high on the hills of im- 
mortahty," and is there met by two other spirits, 
" youthful sons of Paradise," who greet him 
with " Well done, thou good and faithful ser- 
vant," and invite him to ascend to the throne 
of God. 

The stranger informs them, that, when he left his 
native world, on his way towards Heaven, he 
came to a realm of darkness, where he saw 
beings of " all shapes, all forms, all modes of 
wretchedness," in a place of torment, "burn- 
ing continually," and dying perpetually, and 
heard cursing and blasphemies : the meaning of 
which he requests them to unfold to him : but 
they being unable, introduce him to an ancient 
bard of the Earth, and all three request him to 
explain to them the wonders of the place of tor- 
ments, and prison of the damned. 

The bard informs them, that "the place the 
stranger saw was Hell ;" the groans he heard, 
the waihngs of the damned, and that he will 
have his asking, and that "wondering doubt, 
shall learn to answer," while he gives them in 
brief the history of Man. 



Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All things seem as they a,re ; Thou who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw. 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men. 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made the pagan mountains shake 
And Zion's cedars bow — inspire my song; 
My eye unscale ; me what is substance teach. 
And shadow what, while I of things to come, 
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The second Birth, and final Doom of man. 

The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not ; such 
A strain befits not argument so high. 
Me thought, and phrase, severely sifting out 
The whole idea, grant — uttering as 'tis 
The essential truth — Time gone, the righteous 

saved. 
The wicked damned, and Providence approved. 

Hold my right hand, Almighty ! and me teach 
To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes 



Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure 
As those by sainted bards and angels sung, 
Which wake the echoes of eternity — 
That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise 
Instructed listen, of ages yet to come. 

Long was the day, so long expected, past 
Of the eternal doom, that gave to each 
Of all the human race his due reward. 
The sun — earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had 

ceased 
To number seasons, days, and months, and years 
To mortal man : hope was forgotten, and fear ; 
And Time, with all its chance and change, and 

smiles, 
And frequent tears, and deeds of villany, 
Or righteousness — once talked of much, as things 
Of great renown, was now but ill remembered; 
In dim and shadowy vision of the past. 
Seen far remote, as country, which has left 
The traveller's speedy step, retiring back 
From morn till even ; and long Eternity 
Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years 
Men had grown old : the saints, all hoifte returned 
From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long 
Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt 
The stream of life ; and long — alas, how long — 
To them it seemed ! the wicked who refused 
To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark 
Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup 
Their sins had filled with everlasting woe. 

Thus far the years had rolled, which none but 
God 
Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons 
Of Paradise, in conversation sweet, 
(For thus the heavenly muse instructs me, wooed 
At midnight hour with offering sincere 
Of all the heart, poured out in holy prayer,) 
High on the hills of immortality, 
Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls 
Of heaven, walked, casting oft their eye far thro' 
The pure serene, observant, if returned 
From errand duly finished, any came. 
Or any, first in virtue now complete. 
From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good. 

Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing 
Directing towards heaven his course ; and now. 
His flight ascending near the battlements 
And lofty hills on which they walked, approached. 
For round and round, in spacious circuit wide, 
Mountains of tallest stature circumscribe 
The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed 
In uncreated radiance, seem so pure, 
That nought but angel's foot, or saint's, elect 
Of God, may venture there to walk ; here oft 
The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime, 
Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds 
Around their suns revolving in the vast 
External space, or listen the harmonies 
That each to other in its motion sings. 
And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen 
The mount of God in awful glory bright. 
Within, no orb create of moon, or star. 
Or sun gives light ; for God's own countenance, 
Beaming eternally, gives light to all ; 
But farther than these sacred hills his will 
Forbids its flow — too bright for eyes beyond. 



680 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



This is the last ascent of Virtue ; here 
All trial ends, and hope ; here perfect joy, 
With perfect righteousness, which to these heights 
Alone can rise, begins, above all fall. — 

And now, on wing of holy ardour strong, 
Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright ; 
For stranger he did seem, with curious eye 
Of nice inspection round surveying all, 
And at the feet alights of those that stood 
His coming, who the hand of welcome gave, 
And the embrace sincere of holy love ; 
And thus, with comely greeting kind, began. 

Hail, brother ! hail, thou son of happiness ! 
Thou son beloved of God ! welcome to heaven ! 
To bhss that never fades ! thy day is past 
Of trial, and of fear to fall. Well done. 
Thou good and faithful servant ; enter now 
Into the joy eternal of thy Lord. 
Come with us, and behold far higher sight 
Than e'er thy heart desired, or hope conceived. 
See, yonder is the glorious hill of God, 
'Bove angel's gaze in brightness rising high. 
Come, join our wing, and we will guide thy flight 
To mysteries of everlasting bhss; — 
The tree, and fount of life, the eternal throne. 
And presence chamber of the King of kings. 
But what concern hangs on thy countenance, 
Unwont within this place ? perhaps thou deem'st 
Thyself unworthy to be brought before 
The always Ancient One ? so are we too 
Unworthy ; but our God is all in all. 
And gives us boldness to approach his throne. 

Sons of the Highest ! citizens of heaven ! 
Began the new arrived, right have ye judged : 
Unworthy, most unworthy is your servant, 
To stand in presence of the King, or hold 
Most distant and most humble place in this 
Abode of excellent glory unrevealed. 
But, God Almighty be for ever praised. 
Who, of his fulness, fills me with all grace 
And ornament, to make me in his sight 
Well pleasing, and accepted in his court 
But, if your leisure waits, short narrative | 

Will tell, why strange concern thus overhangs j 
My face, ill seeming here; and haply, too, 
Your elder knowledge can instruct my youth, 
Of what seems dark and doubtful unexplained. 

0>ur leisure waits thee: speak; and what we can — 
Dehghted most to give dehght— we will ; 
Though much of mystery yet to us remains. 

Virtue— I need not tell, when proved, and full 
Matured — inclines us up to God, and heaven. 
By law of sweet compulsion strong and sure ; 
Aa gravitation to the larger orb 
The less attracts, through matter's whole domain, 
Virtue in me was ripe — I speak not this 
In boast, for what I am to God I owe, 
Bfttirely owe, and of myself am nought. 
Equipped, and bent for heaven, I left yon world, 
My native seat, which scarce your eye can reach, 
Rolling around her central sun, far out, 
On utmost verge of light. But first to see 
What lay beyond the visible creation 
Strong curiosity my flight impelled. 



Long was my way, and strange. I passed the 

bounds 
Which God doth set to light, and life, and love; 
Where darkness meets with day. where order 

meets 
Disorder, dreadful, waste, and wild; and down 
The dark, eternal, uncreated night 
Ventured alone. Long, long, on rapid wing, 
I sailed through empty, nameless regions vast. 
Where utter Nothing dwells, unformed and void. 
There neither eye, nor ear, nor any sense 
Of being most acute, finds object; there 
For aught external still you search in vain. 
Try touch, or sight, or smell ; try what you will. 
You strangely find nought but yourself alone. 
But why should I in words attempt to tell 
What that is Uke which is — and yet — is not? 
This past, my path, descending, still me led 
O'er unclaimed continents of desert gloom 
Immense, where gravitation, shifting, turns 
The other way ; and to some dread, unknown, 
Infernal centre downward weighs : and now, 
Far travelled from the edge of darkness, far 
As from that glorious mount of God to light's 
Remotest hmb — dire sights I saw, dire sounds 
I heard ; and suddenly before my eye 
A wall of fiery adamant sprung up — 
Wall mountainous, tremendous, flaming high 
Above all flight of hope. I paused, and looked; 
And saw, where'er I looked upon that mound, 
Sad figures traced in fire — not motionless. 
But imitating life. One I remarked 
Attentively ; but how shall I describe 
What nought resembles else my eye hath seen i 
Of worm or serpent kind it something looked. 
But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads. 
Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath ; 
And with as many tails, that twisted out 
In horrid revolution, tipped with stings; 
And all its mouths, that wide and darkly gaped. 
And breathed most poisonous breath, had each a 

sting 
Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp ; 
And, in its writhings infinite, it grasped 
Malignantly what seemed a heart, swollen, black, 
And quivering with torture most intense ; 
And still the heart, with anguish throbbing high, 
Made effort to escape, but could not; for 
Howe'er it turned, and oft it vainly turned, 
These complicated foldings held it fast. 
And still the monstrous beast with sting of head 
Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore. 
What this could image , much I searched to know : 
And while I stood, and gazed, and wondered long, 
A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one 
I saw, distinctly whispered in my ear 
These words — This is the Worm that never dies. 

Fast by the side of this unsightly thing 
Another was portrayed, more hideous still: 
Who sees it once shall wish to see 't no more. 
For ever undescribed let it remain ! 
Only this much I may or can unfold — 
Far out it thrust a dart that might have made 
The knees of terror quake, and on it hung, 
Within the triple barbs, a being pierced 
Through soul and body both : of heavenly make 
Original the being seemed, but fallen. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



681 



4nd worn and wasted with enormous woe. 
jAijnd slill around the everlasting lance 
It\writhed convulsed, and uttered mimic groans ; 
A?d tried and wished, and ever tried and wished 
T(\die ; but could not die. — Oh, horrid sight! 
Itr«mbling gazed, and listened, and heard this voice 
Approach my ear — This is Eternal Death. 

Nif these alone. — Upon that burning wall. 
In hoi^rible emblazonry, were hmned 
All stripes, all forms, all modes of wretchedness. 
And a^ony, and grief, and desperate woe. 
And pi\)minent in characters of fire, 
Wherey the eye could light, these words you 

r^d: 
" Who e»mes this way — behold, and fear to sin !" 
Amazed \ stood ; and thought such imagery 
Foretokered, within, a dangerous abode. 
But yet to We the worst a wish arose : 
For virtue,\by the holy seal of God 
Accredited \x\d stamped, immortal all, 
And all invi^nerable, fears no hurt. 
As easy as rtar wish, as rapidly 
I through theWrrid rampart passed, unscathed 
And unopposeJ ; and, poised on steady wing, 
i hovering gaz\d. Eternal Justice ! Sons 
Of God ! tell nie, if ye can tell, what then 
I saw, what theV I heard. — Wide was the place, 
And deep as wice, and ruinous as deep. 
Beneath, I saw ailake of burning fire, 
With tempest toa perpetually, and still 
The waves of fiert darkness, 'gainst the rocks 
Of dark damnation broke, and music made 
Of melancholy sori: and over head, 
And all around, wind warred with wind, storm 

howled \ 

To storm, and lightnng, forked lightning, crossed, 
And thunder answered thunder, muttering sounds 
Of sullen wrath ; andVar as sight could pierce. 
Or down descend in c^ves of hopeless depth, 
Through all that dung\on of unfading fire, 
I saw most miserable teings walk, 
Burning continually, y^ unconsumed : 
For ever wasting, yet eiyiuring still; 
Dying perpetually, yet ripver dead. 
Some wandered lonely ir^the desert flames. 
And some in fell encounter fiercely met, 
With curses loud, and blasphemies, that made 
The cheek of darkness palV ; and as they fought. 
And cursed, and gnashed tkeir teeth, and wished 

to die, \ 

Their hollow eyes did utter kreams of woe. 
And there were groans that euded not, and sighs 
That always sighed, and tearj that ever wept. 
And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. 
And Sorrow, and Repentance, and Despair, 
Among them walked, and to their thirsty lips 
Presented frequent cups of burning gall. 
And as I listened, I heard these beings curse 
Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse 
The Earth, the Resurrection morn, and seek 
And ever vainly seek, for utter death. 
And to their everlasting anguish still, 
The thunders from above responding spoke 
These words, which, through the caverns of per- 
dition 
Forlornly echoing, fell on every ear : 
" Ye knew your dutv, but ye did it not." 
86 



And back again recoiled a deeper groan. 
A deeper groan ! Oh, what a groan was that ! 
I waited not, but swift on speediest wing. 
With unaccustomed thoughts conversing, back 
Retraced my venturous path from dark to light: 
Then up ascending, long ascending up, 
I hasted on ; though whiles the chiming spheres, 
By God's own finger touched to harmony. 
Held me delaying — till I here arrived. 
Drawn upward by the eternal love of God, 
Of wonder full and strange astonishment. 
At what in yonder den of darkness dwells. 
Which now your higher knowledge will unfold. 

They answering said : to ask and to bestow 
Knowledge, is much of heaven's delight ; and now 
Most joyfully what thou requir'st we would ; 
For much of new, and unaccountable, 
Thou bring' St : something indeed we heard 

before. 

In passing conversation slightly touched. 
Of such a place ; yet, rather to be taught, 
Than teaching, answer what thy marvel asks, 
We need ; for we ourselves, though here, are but 
Of yesterday — creation's younger sons. 
But there is one, an ancient bard of Earth, 
Who, by the stream of life, sitting in bliss, 
Has oft beheld the eternal years complete 
The mighty circle round the throne of God ; 
Great in all learning, in all wisdom great. 
And great in song ; whose harp in lofty strain 
Tells frequently of what thy wonder craves, 
While round him, gathering, stand the youth of 

Heaven, 
With truth and melody delighted both : 
To him this path directs, an easy path, 
And easy flight will bring us to his seat. 

So saying, they linked hand in hand, spread out 
Their golden wings, by living breezes fanned, 
And over heaven's broad champaign sailed serene. 
O'er hill and valley, clothed with verdure green 
That never fades ; and tree, and herb, and flower. 
That never fades ; and many a river, rich 
With nectar, winding pleasantly, they passed ; 
And mansion of celestial mould, and work 
Divine. And oft delicious music, sung 
By saint and angel bands that walked the vales. 
Or mountain tops, and harped upon their harps, ■ 
Their ear inclined, and held by sweet constraint 
Their wing ; not long, for strong desire awaked 
Of knowledge that to holy use might turn, 
Still pressed them on to leave what rather seemed 
Pleasure, due only when all duty's done. 

And now beneath them lay the wished for spot. 
The sacred bower of that renowned bard ; 
That ancient bard, ancient in days and song; 
But in immortal vigour young, and young 
In rosy health — to pensive solitude 
Retiring oft, as was his wont on earth. 

Fit was the place, most fit, for holy musing. 
Upon a little mount, that gently rose, 
He sat, clothed in white robes ; and o'er his head 
A laurel tree, of lustiest, eldest growth 
Stately and tall, and shadowing far and wide — 
Not fruitless, as on earth, but bloomed, and rich 



682 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



With frequent clusters, ripe to heavenly taste — 

Spread its eternal boughs, and in its arms 

A myrtle of unfading leaf embraced ; 

The rose and Hly, fresh with fragrant dew, 

And every flower of fairest cheek, around 

Him, smiling, flocked ; beneath his feet, fast by, 

And round his sacred hill, a streamlet walked, 

Warbling the holy melodies of heaven ; 

The hallowed zephyrs brought him incense sweet ; 

And out before him opened, in prospect long, 

The river of life, in many a winding maze 

Descending from the lofty throne of God, 

That with excessive glory closed the scene. 

Of Adam's race he was, and lonely sat, 
By chance that day, in meditation deep. 
Reflecting much of Time, and Earth, and Man: 
And now to pensive, now to cheerful notes, 
He touched a harp of wondrous melody ; 
A golden harp it was, a precious gift. 
Which, at the day of judgment, with the crown 
Of life, he had received from God's own hand, 
Reward due to his service done on earth. 

He sees their coming ; and with greeting kind, 
And welcome, not of hollow forged smiles. 
And ceremonious compliment of phrase. 
But of the heart sincere, into his bower 
Invites. Like greeting they returned ; not bent 
In low obeisancy, from creature most 
Unfit to creature ; but with manly form 
Upright, they entered in ; though high his rank, 
His wisdom high, and mighty his renown. 
And thus, deferring all apology. 
The two their new companion introduced. 

Ancient in knowledge ! — bard of Adam's race ! 
We bring thee one, of us inquiring what 
We need to learn, and with him wish to learn. 
His asking will direct thy answer best. 

Most ancient bard ! began the new arrived, 
Few words will set my wonder forth, and guide 
Thy wisdom's light to what in me is dark. 

Equipped for heaven, I left my native place ; 
But first beyond the realms of light I bent 
My course ; and there, in utter darkness, far 
Remote, I beings saw forlorn in woe, 
Burning continually, yet unconsumed. '"^ 
And there were groans that ended not, and sighs 
That always sighed, and tears that ever wept 
And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight ; 
And still I heard these wretched beings curse 
Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse 
The Earth, the Resurrection morn, and seek, 
And ever vainly seek, for utter death : 
And from above, the thunders answered still, 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
And every where throughout that horrid den, 
I saw a form of excellence, a form 
Of beauty without spot, that nought could see 
And not admire — admire, and not adore. 
And from its own essential beams it gave 
Light to itself, that made the gloom more dark ; 
And every eye in that infernal pit 
Beheld it still ; and from its face — how fair ! 
how exceeding fair i — for ever sought, 



But ever vainly sought, to turn away. 
That image, as I guess, was Virtue ; for 
Nought else hath God given countenance so &ir. 
But why in such a place it should abide ? 
What place it is ? what beings there lament ? 
Whence came they ? and for what their endless 

groan ? 
Why curse they God ? why seek they utter ieath ? 
And chief, what means the Resurrection norn ? 
My youth expects thy reverend age to tel'. 

Thou rightly deem'st, fair youth, bigan the 
bard; 
The form thou saw'st was Virtue, everfair. 
Virtue, like God, whose excellent majasty, 
Whose glory virtue is, is omnipresent. 
No being, once created rational, 
Accountable, endowed with moral sease. 
With sapience of right and wrong enlowed. 
And charged, however fallen, debasrd, destroyed; 
However lost, forlorn, and miserahe ; 
In guilt's dark shrouding wrapt, however thick ; 
However drunk, delirious, and mfd.. 
With sin's full cup ; and with whstever damned. 
Unnatural diligence it work and toil. 
Can banish virtue from its sight, or once 
Forget that she is fair. Hides it in night, 
In central night ; takes it the Hchtning'e wing. 
And flies for ever on, beyond tie bounds 
Of all ; drinks it the maddest cup of sin ; 
Dives it beneath the ocean of lespair ; 
It dives, it drinks, it flies, it hdes in vain: 
For still the eternal beauty, image fair. 
Once stampt upon the soul, before the eye 
All lovely stands, nor will cepart ; so God 
Ordains: and lovely to the worst she seems, 
And ever seems ; and as they look, and still 
Must ever look upon her bveliness 
Remembrance dire of whit they were, of what 
They might have been, aid bitter sense of what 
They are, polluted, ruintd, hopeless, lost. 
With most repenting tornent rend their hearts. 
So God ordains — their lunishment severe, 
Eternally inflicted by themselves. 
'Tis this — this Virtue tovering evermore 
Before the vision of the damned, and in 
Upon their monstrous moral nakedness 
Casting unwelcome Ight, that makes their woe, 
That makes the essence of the endless flame : 
Where this is, there is Hell — darker than aught 
That he, the bard three- visioned, darkest saw. 

The place thot saw'st was Hell — the groans 

thou heard'st 
The wailings of the damned — of those who would I 
Not be redeemed — and at the judgment day. 
Long past, for unrepented sins were damned. 
The seven loud thunders which thou heard'st, , 

declare 
The eternal wrath of the Almighty God. 
But whence, or why they came to dwell in woe, 
Why they curse God, what means the glorious ) 

morn 
Of Resurrection— these a longer tale 
Demand, and lead the mournful lyre far back 
Through memory of sin, and mortal man. 
Yet haply not rewardless we shall trace 
The dark disastrous years of finished Time. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



683 



Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. 
Nor yet shall all be sad ; for God gave peace, 
Much peace, on earth, to all who feared his name. 

But first it i\eeds to say, that other style, 
And other language than thy ear is wont, 
Thou must expect to hear — the dialect 
Of man : for each in heaven a relish holds 
Of former speech, that points to whence he came. 
But whether I of person speak, or place, 
Event or action, moral or divine ; 
Or things unknown compare to things unknown ; 
Allude, imply, suggest, apostrophize; 
Or touch, when wandering through the past, on 

moods 
Of mind thou never felt'st; the meaning still. 
With easy apprehension, thou shalt take ; 
So perfect here is knowledge, and the strings 
Of sympathy so tuned, that every word 
That each to other speaks, though never heard 
Before, at once is fully understood, 
And every feeling uttered, fully felt. 

So shalt thou find, as from my various song. 
That backward rolls o'er many a tide of years. 
Directly or inferred, thy asking, thou. 
And wondering doubt, shalt learn to answer, while 
I sketch in brief the history of Man. 



The other influences which led to error, are 
mentioned ; short sighted reason, vanity, indo 
lence, and finally "Pride, self-adoring pride, 
was primal cause of all sin past , all pain, all woe 
to come." 



BOOK II. 



ANALYSIS. 

A description of the earth when first created ; and 
^he formation of man ; a reasonable free agent, 
"apright and immortal. The command given 
■was a test of filial love, loyalty, obedience and 
•faith. The temptation, sin and fall of man, and 
redemption from death by the death of Christ. 
Many would not accept the free offer of fife and 
salvation, and in consquence, incurred the pu- 
nishment of the second death and hell. — That 
they acted thus, and thus perversely chose, well I 
assured of the consequence, by the information 
contained and given them in the Bible ; which 
was a code of laws, containing the will of hea- 
ven, and defined the bounds of vice and virtue, 
and of life and death. Mankind were required 
to read, believe, and obey ; and although many 
did so believe, and were saved, yet many turned 
the truth of God into a lie, transforming the 
meaning of the text to suit their own vile and 
wicked purposes, "deceiving and deceived." 
That the voice of God, against which nothing 
could " bribe to sleep" the truths of " Judg- 
ment, and a Judge," caused the wicked to be 
"ill at ease :" on which account many ran into 
impious idolatry, and worshipped ten thousand 
deities, " imagined worse than he who craved 
their peace." 
The magistrate often turned religion into a trick 
of state, despising the truth, and forcing the con- 
sciences of men : while the enslaved "mimick- 
ing the follies of the great, despised her too." 



This said, he waked the golden harp, and thusj 
While on him inspiration breathed, began. 

As from yon everlasting hills, that gird 
Heaven northward, I thy course espied, I judge 
Thou from the arctic regions came ? Perhaps 
Thou noticed on thy way a httle orb, 
Attended by one moon — her lamp by night ; 
With her fair sisterhood of planets seven. 
Revolving round their central sun — she tliird 
In place, in magnitude the fourth — that orb. 
New made, new named, inhabited anew, 
(Though whiles we sons of Adam visit still, 
Our native place ; not changed so far but we 
Can trace our ancient walks — the scenery 
Of childhood, youth, and prime, and hoary age—* 
But scenery most of suffering and woe,) 
That Httle orb, in days remote of old. 
When angels yet were young, was made for man, 
And titled Earth — her primal virgin name : 
Created first so lovely, so adorned 
With hill, and dale, and lawn, and winding vale : 
Woodland and stream, and lake, and rolling seas ; 
Green mead, and fruitful tree, and fertile grain, 
And herb and flower: so lovely, so adorned 
With numerous beasts of every kind, with fowl 
Of every wing and every tuneful note ; 
And with all fish that in the multitude 
Of waters swam : so lovely, so adorned, 
So fit a dwelling place for man, that, as 
She rose, complete, at the creating word, 
The morning stars — the sons of God, aloud 
Shouted for joy ; and God beholding, saw 
The fair design, that from eternity 
His mind conceived, accomplished ; and, well 

pleased. 
His six days finish' d work most good pronounced, 
And man declared the sovereign prince of all. 

All else was prone, irrational, and mute. 
And unaccountable, by instinct led : 
But man He made of angel form erect, 
To hold communion with the heavens above, 
And on his soul impressed His image fair, 
His own similitude of holiness. 
Of virtue, truth, and love; with reason high 
To balance right and wrong, and conscience quick 
To choose or to reject ; with knowledge great. 
Prudence and wisdom, vigilance and strength. 
To guard all force or guile ; and last of all. 
The highest gift of God's abundant grace, 
With perfect, free, unbiassed will. — Thus man 
Was made upright, immortal made, and crowned 
The king of all ; to eat, to drink, to do 
Freely and sovereignly his will entire : 
By one command alone restrained, to prove, 
As was most just, his filial love sincere. 
His loyalty, obedience due, and faith. 
And thus the prohibition ran, expressed, 
As God is wont, in terms of plainest truth. 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



Of every tree that in the garden grows 
Thou mayest freely eat ; but of the tree 
That knowledge hath of good and ill, eat not, 
Nor touch ; for in the day thou eatest, thou 
Shalt die. Go, and this one command obey ; 
Adam, live and be happy, and, with thy Eve, 
Fit consort, multiply and fill the earth. 

Thus they, the representatives of man, 
Were placed in Eden — choicest spot on earth; 
With royal honour, and with glory crowned, 
Adam, the lord of all, majestic walked. 
With godlike countenance sublime, and form 
Of lofty towering strength ; and by his side 
Eve, fair as morning star, with modesty 
Arrayed, with virtue, grace, and perfect love : 
In holy marriage wed, and eloquent 
Of thought and comely words, to worship God 
And sing his praise — the giver of all good. 
Glad, in each other glad, and glad in hope; 
Rejoicing in their future happy race. 

lovely, happy, blest, immortal pair! 
Pleased with the present, full of glorious hope. 
But short, alas, the song that sings their bliss : 
Henceforth the history of man grows dark : 
Shade after shade of deepening gloom descends: 
And Innocence laments her robes defiled. 
Who farther sings, must change the pleasant lyre 
To heavy notes of woe. Why ? — dost thou ask, 
.Surprised? The answer will surprise thee more. 
Man sinned : tempted, he ate the guarded tree ; 
Tempted of whom thou afterwards shalt hear : 
Audacious, unbelieving, proud, ungrateful, 
He ate the interdicted fruit, and fell ; 
And in his fall, his universal race ; 
For they in him by delegation were. 
In him to stand or fall — to live or die. 

Man most ingrate I so full of grace ! to sin — 
Here interposed the new arrived — so full 
Of bliss — to sin against the Gracious One ! 
The holy, just, and good ! the Eternal Love ! 
Unseen, unheard, unthought of wickedness ! 
Why slumbered vengeance ? No, it slumbered 

not. 
The ever just and righteous God would let 
His fury loose, and satisfy his threat. 

That had been just, replied the reverend bard : 
But done, fair youth, thou ne'er hadst met me 

here: 
I ne'er had seen yon glorious throne in peace. 

Thy powers are great, originally great. 
And purified even at the fount of light. 
Exert them now ; call all their vigour out ; 
Take room, think vastly ; meditate intensely ; 
Reason profoundly ; send conjecture forth ; 
Let fancy fly ; stoop down ; ascend ; all length, 
All breadth explore ; all moral, all divine ; 
Ask prudence, justice, mercy ask, and might ; 
Weigh good with evil, balance right with wrong ; 
With virtue vice compare — hatred with love ; 
God's holiness, God's justice, and God's truth. 
Deliberately and cautiously compare 
With sinful, wicked, vile, rebellious man. 
And see if thou can'st punish sin, and let 
Mankind go free. Thou fail'st — be not surprised : 



I bade thee search in vain. Eternal love — 
Harp, lift thy voice on high — Eternal love, 
Eternal, sovereign love, and sovereign grace. 
Wisdom, and power, and mercy infinite. 
The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, God, 
Devised the wondrous plan — devised, achieved ; 
And in achieving made the marvel more. 
Attend, ye heavens ! ye heaven of heavens, at 

tend ! 
Attend, and wonder ! wonder evermore i 
When man had fallen, rebelled, insulted God; 
Was most polluted, yet most madly proud; 
Indebted infinitely, yet most poor 
Captive to sin, yet willing to be bound; 
To God's incensed justice, and hot wrath 
Exposed ; due victim of eternal death 
And utter woe — Harp, lift thy voice on high ! 
Ye everlasting hills ! — ye angels, bow ! 
Bow, ye redeemed of men ! God was made flesh, 
And dwelt with man on earth ! the Son of God, 
Only begotten, and well beloved, between 
Men and his Father's justice interposed ; 
Put human nature on; His wrath sustained ; 
And in their name suffered, obeyed, and died, 
Making his soul an offering for sin ; 
Just for unjust, and innocence for guilt. 
By doing, suffering, dying unconstrained,. 
Save by omnipotence of boundless grace, 
Complete atonement made to God appeased ; 
Made honourable his insulied law, 
Turning the wrath aside from pardoned man. 
Thus Truth with Meixy met, and Righteousness, 
Stooping from highest heaven, embraced fair 

Peace, 
That walked the earth in fellowship with Love. 

O love divine ! mercy infinite ! 
The audience here in glowing rapture broke- 
O love, all height above, all depth below, 
Surpassing far all knowledge, all desire. 
All thought, the Holy One for sinners dies 
The Lord of life for guilty rebels bleeds- 
Quenches eternal fire with blood divine. 
Abundant mercy ! overflowing grace ! 
There whence I came, I something heard of aiAnn ', 
Their name had reached us, and report did speak 
Of some abominable horrid thing, 
Of desperate offence they had committed ; 
And something too of wondrous grace we heard ; 
And oft of our celestial visitants 
What man, what God had done, inquired: but 

they 
Forbid, our asking never met directly, 
Exhorting still to persevere upright. 
And we should hear in heaven, tho' greatly blest 
Ourselves, new wonders of God's wondrous love._ 
This hinting, keener appetite to know 
Awaked ; and as we talked, and much admired 
What new we there should learn, we hasted each 
To nourish virtue to perfection up, 
That we might have our wondering resolved, 
And leave of louder praise, to greater deeds 
Of loving kindness due. Mysterious love ! 
God was made flesh, and dwelt with men on 

earth ! 
Blood holy, blood divine for sinners shed ! 
My asking ends — but makes my wonder more. 
Saviour of men ! henceforth be thou my theme : 



II 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



685^ 



Redeeming love, my study day and night. 
Mankind were lost, all lost, and all redeemed ! 

Thou err'st again — but innocently err'st ; 
Not knowing sin's depravity, nor man's 
Sincere and persevering wickedness. 
All were redeemed ? Not all — or thou hadst heard 
No human voice in hell. Many refused, 
Although beseeched, refused to be redeemed ; 
Redeemed from death to life, from woe to bliss ! 

Canst thou believe my song when thus I sing ? 
When man had fallen, was ruined, hopeless, lost — 
Ye choral harps ! ye angels that excel 
In strength ! and loudest, ye redeemed of men ! 
To God — to Him that sits upon the throne 
On high, and to the Lamb, sing honour, sing 
Dominion, glory ; blessing sing, and praise — 
When man had fallen, was ruined, hopeless, lost, 
Messiah, Prince of Peace, Eternal King, 
Died, that the dead might live, the lost be saved. 
Wonder, heavens ! and be astonished, earth ! 
Thou ancient, thou forgotten earth ! Ye worlds 

admire ! 
Admire, and be confounded ! and thou, Hell ! 
Deepen thy eternal groan — men would not be 
Redeemed — I speak of many, not of all — 
Would not be saved for lost, have life for death ! 

Mysterious song ! the new arrived exclaimed ; 
Mysterious mercy ! most mysterious hate ! 
To disobey was mad ; this madder far. 
Incurable insanity of will. 
What now but wrath could guilty men expect ? 
What more could love, what more could mercy 
do? 

No more, resumed the bard, no more they 
could. 
" Thou hast seen hell — the wicked there lament ; 
And why ? — For love and mercy twice despised. 
The husbandman, who sluggishly forgot 
In spring to plough and sow, could censure none, 
Tho' winter clamoured round his empty barns. 
But he who having thus neglected, did 
Refuse, when autumn came, and famine threat- 
ened. 
To reap the golden field that charity 
Bestowed — nay, more obdurate, proud, and blind, 
And stupid still, refused, tho' much beseeched. 
And long entreated, even with Mercy's tears, 
To eat what to his very lips was held, 
Cooked temptingly — he certainly, at least, 
Deserved to die of hunger, unbemoaned. 
So did the wicked spurn the grace of God ; 
And so were punished with the second death. 
The first, no doubt, punition less severe 
Intended, death behke of all entire ; 
But this incurred, by God discharged, and life 
Freely presented, and again despised — 
Despised, though bought with Mercy's proper 

blood — 
'Twas this dug hell, and kindled all its bounds 
With wrath and inextinguishable fire. 

Free was the offer, free to all, of life 
And of salvation ; but the proud of heart, 
Because 'twas free, would not accept ; and still 



To merit wished : and choosing, thus unshipped, 
Uncompassed, unprovisioned, and bestormed. 
To swim a sea of breadth immeasurable. 
They scorned the goodly bark, whose wings the 

breath 
Of God's eternal Spirit filled for heaven. 
That stopped to take them in ! and so were lost. 

What wonders dost thou tell? to merit, how?: 
Of creature meriting in sight of God, 
As right of service done, I never heard 
Till now. We never fell ; in virtue stood 
Upright, and persevered in holiness 
But stood by grace, by grace we persevered ; 
Ourselves, our deeds, our hohest, highest deeds 
Unworthy aught — grace worthy endless praise. 
If we fly swift, obedient to his will. 
He gives us wings to fly ; if we resist 
Temptation, and ne'er fall, it is his shield 
Omnipotent that wards it off"; if we. 
With love unquenchable, before him burn, 
'Tis he that lights and keeps alive the flame. 
Men surely lost their reason in their fall. 
And did not understand the offer made. 

They might have understood, the bard replied.. 
They had the Bible. Hast thou ever heard 
Of such a book ? the author, God himself; 
The subject, God and man ; salvation, life 
And death — eternal life, eternal death — 
Dread words ! whose meaning has no end, no» 

bounds — 
Most wondrous book ! bright candle of the Lord t 
Star of eternity ! the only star 
By which the bark of man could navigate 
The sea of life, and gain the coast of bliss 
Securely ; only star which rose on Time, 
And, on its dark and troubled billows, still, 
As generation, drifting swiftly by. 
Succeeded generation, threw a ray 
Of heaven's own light, and to the hills of God, 
The everlasting hills, pointed the sinner's eye: 
By prophets, seers, and priests, and sacred bards> 
Evangelists, apostles, men inspired. 
And by the Holy Ghost anointed, set 
Apart and consecrated to declare 
To earth the counsels of the Eternal One, 
This book this holiest, this sublimest book, 
Was sent. — Heaven's will, Heaven's code of laws. 

entire 
To man, this book contained; defined the bounds 
Of vice and virtue, and of life and death; 
And what was shadow, what was substance 

taught. 
Much it revealed ; important all ; the least 
Worth more than what else seemed of highest 

worth : 
But this of plainest, most essential truth — 
That God is one, eternal, holy, just. 
Omnipotent, omniscient, infinite ; 
Most wise, most good, most merciful and true j 
In all perfection most unchangeable: 
That man — that every man of every clime 
And hue, of every age, and every rank. 
Was bad — by nature and by practice bad ; 
In understanding blind, in will perverse, 
In heart corrupt ; in every thought, and word. 
Imagination, passion, and desire, 
Most utterly depraved throughout, and ill, 



686 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



In sight of Heaven, though less in sight of man ; 

At enmity with God his maker born, 

And by his very hfe an heir of death : 

That man — that every man was, farther, most 

Unable to redeem himself, or pay 

One mite of his vast debt to God — nay, more, 

Was most reluctant and averse to be 

Redeemd, and sin's most voluntary stave : 

That Jesus, Son of God, of Mary born 

In Bethlehem, and by Pilate crucified 

On Calvary for man thus fallen and lost, 

Died ; and, by death, hfe and salvation bought, 

And perfect righteousness, for all who should 

In his great name believe: that He, the third 

In the eternal Essence, to the prayer 

Sincere should come, should come as soon as 

asked, 
Proceeding from the Father and the Son, 
To give faith and repentance, such as God 
Accepts — to open the intellectual eyes, 
Blinded by sin ; to bend the stubborn will, 
Perversely to the side of wrong inclined, 
To God and his commandments, just and good ; 
The wild rebellious passions to subdue. 
And bring them back to harmony with heaven ; 
To purify the conscience, and to lead 
The mind into all truth, and to adorn 
With every holy ornament of grace, 
And sanctify the whole renewed soul. 
Which henchforth might no more fall totally. 
But persevere, though erring oft, amidst 
The mists of time, in piety to God, 
And sacred works of charity to men : 
That he, who thus believed, and practised thus. 
Should have his sins forgiven, however vile ; 
Should be sustained at mid-day, morn, and even. 
By God's omnipotent, eternal grace ; 
And in the evil hour of sore disease, 
Temptation, persecution, war, and death — 
For temporal death, although unstinged, re- 
mained — 
Beneath the shadow of the Almighty's wings 
Should sit unhurt, and at the judgment day. 
Should share the resurrection of the just. 
And reign with Christ in bliss for evermore : 
That all, however named, however great, 
Who would not thus believe, nor practise thus, 
But in their sins impenitent remained. 
Should in perpetual fear and terror live ; 
Should die unpardoned, unredeemed, unsaved; 
And at the hour of doom, should be cast out 
To utter darkness in the night of hell. 
By mercy and by God abandoned, there 
To reap the harvests of eternal woe. 

This did that book declare in obvious phrase. 
In most sincere and honest words, by God 
Himself selected and arranged ; so clear. 
So plain, so perfectly distinct, that none 
Who read with humble wish to understand, 
And asked the Spirit, given to all who asked, 
Could miss their meaning, blazed in heavenly 
light. 

The book — this holy book, on every line 
Marked with the seal of high divinity, 
'On every leaf bedewed with drops of love 
Divine, and with the eternal heraldry 



And signature of God Almighty stampt 
From first to last — this ray of sacred light, 
This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, 
Mercy took down, and, in the night of time 
Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow ; 
And evermore beseeching men, with tears 
And earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live : 
And many to her voice gave ear, and read, 
Believed, obeyed ; and now, as the Amen, 
True, Faithful Witness swore, with snowy robes 
And branchy palms surround the fount of life, 
And drink the streams of immortahty. 
For ever happy, and for ever young. 

Many believed ; but more the truth of God 
Turned to a lie, deceiving and deceived ; — 
Each, with the accursed sorcery of sin, 
To his own wish and vile propensity 
Transforming still the meaning of the text. 

Hear, while I briefly tell what mortals proved, 
By eflTort vast of ingenuity, 
Most wondrous, though perverse and damnable; 
Proved from the Bible, which, as thou hast heard, 
So plainly spoke that all could understand. 
First, and not least in number, argued some. 
From out this book itself, it was a lie, 
A fable framed by crafty men to cheat 
The simple herd, and make them bow the knee 
To kings and priests. These in their wisdom left 
The light revealed, and turned to fancies wild ; 
Maintaining loud, that ruined, helpless man, 
Needed no saviour. Others proved that men 
Might live and die in sin, and yet be saved, 
For so it was decreed ; binding the will. 
By God left free, to unconditional, 
Unreasonable fate. Others believed 
That he who was most criminal, debased, 
Condemned, and dead, unaided might asceod 
The heights of Virtue ; to a perfect law 
Giving a lame, half-way obedience, which 
By useless effort only served to show 
The impotence of him who vainly strove 
With finite arm to measure infinite ; 
Most useless effort ! when to justify 
In sight of God it meant, as proof of faith 
Most acceptable, and worthy of all praise. 
Another held, and from the Bible held. 
He was infallible, — most fallen by such 
Pretence — that none the Scriptures, open to all, 
And most to humble-hearted, ought to read. 
But priests ; that all who ventured to disclaim 
His forged authority, incurred the wrath 
Of heaven ; and he who, in the blood of such, 
Though father, mother, daughter, wife, or son, 
Imbrued his hands, did most rehgious work, 
Well pleasing to the heart of the Most High. 
Others, in outward rite, devotion placed ; 
In meats, in drinks ; in robe of certain shape — 
In bodily abasements, bended knees ; 
Days, numbers, places, vestments, words, and 

names — 
Absurdly in their hearts imagining, 
That God, like men, was pleased with outward 

show. 
Another, stranger and more wicked still, 
With dark and dolorous labour, ill applied. 
With many a gripe of conscience, and with most 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



687 



Unhealthy and abortive reasoning, 
That brought his sanity to serious doubt, 
'Mong wise and honest men, mantained that He, 
First Wisdom, Great Messiah, Prince of Peace, 
The second of the uncreated Three, 
Was nought but man — of earthly origin • 
Thus making void the sacrifice Divine, 
And leaving guilty men, God's holy law 
Still unatoned, to work them endless death. 

These are a part ; but to relate them all 
The monstrous, unbaptized phantasies, 
Imaginations fearfully absurd. 
Hobgoblin rites, and moon-struck reveries. 
Distracted creeds, anri visionary dreams. 
More bodiless and hideously misshapen 
Tnan ever fancy, at the noon of night. 
Playing at will, framed in the madman's brain, 
That from this book of simple truth were proved, 
Were proved, as foolish men were wont to prove. 
Would bring my word in doubt, and thy belief 
Stagger, though here I sit and sing, within 
The pale of truth, where falsehood never came. 

The rest, who lost the heavenly light revealed, 
Not wishing to retain God in their minds. 
In darkness wandered on ; yet could they not. 
Though moral night around them drew her pall 
Of blackness, rest in utter unbelief. 
The voice within, the voice of God, that nought 
Could bribe to sleep, though steeped in sorceries 
Of Hell, and much abused by whisperings 
Of evil spirits in the dark, announced 
A day of judgment, and a judge — a day 
Of misery, or bUss ; — and, being ill 
At ease, for gods they chose them stocks and 

stones, 
Reptiles, and weeds and beasts and creeping 

things. 
And spirits accursed — ten thousand deities ! 
(Imagined worse than he who craved their peace , ) 
And, bowing, worshipped these as best beseemed. 
With midnight revelry, obscene and loud. 
With dark, infernal, deviUsh ceremonies. 
And horrid sacrifice of human flesh. 
That made the fair heavens blush. So bad was 

sin! 
So lost, so ruined, so depraved was man ! 
Created first in God's own image fair ! 

Oh, cursed, cursed Sin! traitor to God, 
And ruiner of man ! mother of Woe, 
And Death, and Hell, — wretched, yet seeking 

worse : 
Polluted most, yet wallowing in the mire ; 
Most mad, yet drinking Frenzy's giddy cup ; 
Depth ever deepening, darkness darkening still ; 
Folly for wisdom, guilt for innocence ; 
Anguish for rapture, and for hope despair ; 
Destroyed, destroying ; in tormenting pained ; 
Unawed by wrath ; by mercy unreclaimed ; 
Thing most unsightly, most forlorn, most sad — 
Thy time on earth is past, thy war with God 
And holiness : but who, oh who shall tell, 
Thy unrepentable and ruinous thoughts? 
Thy sighs, thy groans ? Who reckon thy burn 

ing tears. 
And damned looks of everlasting grief. 



Where now, with thosie who took their part with 

thee, 
Thou sitt'st in Hell, gnawed by the eternal 

Worm — 
To hurt no more on all the holy hills? 

That those, deserting once the lamp of truth, 
Should wander ever on, from worse to worse 
Erroneously, thy wonder needs not ask: 
But that enlightened, reasonable men, 
Knowing themselves accountable, to whom 
God spoke from heaven, and by his servants 

warned. 
Both day and night, with earnest, pleading voice, 
Of retribution equal to their works. 
Should persevere in evil, and be lost — 
This strangeness, this unpardonable guilt. 
Demands an answer, which my song unfolds, 
In part, directly ; but hereafter more, 
To satisfy thy wonder, thou shall learn, 
Inferring much from what is yet to sing. 

Know then, of men who sat in highest place 
Exalted, and for sin by others done 
Were chargeable, the king and priest were chief. 
Many were faithful, holy, just, upright, 
Faithful to God and man — reigning renowned 
In righteousness, and, to the people, loud 
And fearless, speaking all the words of life. 
These at the judgment day, as thou shalt hear, 
Abundant harvest reaped ; but many, too, 
Alas, how many ! famous now in Hell, 
Were wicked, cruel, tyrannous, and vile ; 
Ambitious of themselves, abandoned, mad ; 
And still from servants hasting to be gods, 
Such gods as now they serve in Erebus. 
I pass their lewd example by, that led 
So many wrong, for courtly fashion lost, 
And prove them guilty of one crime alone. 
Of every wicked ruler, prince supreme. 
Or magistrate below, the one intent. 
Purpose, desire, and struggle day and night, 
Was evermore to wrest the crown from off 
Messiah's head, and put it on his own ; 
And in His place give spiritual laws to men; 
To bind religion — free by birth, by God, 
And nature free, and made accountable 
To none but God — behmd the wheels of state ; 
To make the holy altar, where the Prince 
Of life, incarnate, bled to ransom man, 
A footstool to the throne. For this they met 
Assembled, counselled, meditated, planned; 
Devised in open and secret ; and for this 
Enacted creeds of wondrous texture, creeds 
The Bible never owned, unsanctioned too. 
And reprobate in heaven ; but by the power 
That made, (exerted now in gentler form, 
Monopohzing rights and privileges, 
Equal to all, and waving now the sword 
Of persecution fierce, tempered in hell,) 
Forced on the conscience of inferior men : 
The conscience, that sole monarchy in man, 
Owing allegiance to no earthly prince ; 
Made by the edict of creation free ; 
Made sacred, made above all human lawa; 
Holding of heaven alone ; of most divine 
And indefeasible authority ; 
An individual sovereignty, that none 



688 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Created might, unpunished, bind or touch ; 
Unbound, save by the eternal laws of God, 
And unamenable to all below. 

Thus did the uncircumcised potentates 
Of earth debase religion in the sight 
Of those they ruled — who, looking up, beheld 
The fair celestial gift despised, enslaved; 
And, mimicking the folly of the great, 
With prompt docility despised her too. 

The prince or magistrate, however named 
Or praised, who, knowing better, acted thus, 
Was wicked, and received, as he deserved, 
Damnation. But the unfaithful priest, what 

tongue 
Enough shall execrate ? His doctrine may 
Be passed, though mixed with most unhallowed 

leaven, 
That proved to those who foolishly partook, 
Eternal bitterness: — but this was still 
His sin — beneath what cloak soever veiled. 
His ever growing and perpetual sin. 
First, last, and middle thought, whence every 

wish, 
Whence every action rose, and ended both — 
To mount to place, and power of worldly sort ; 
To ape the gaudy pomp and equipage 
Of earthly state, and on his mitred brow 
To place a royal crown : for this he sold 
The sacred truth to him who most would give 
Of titles, benefices, honours, names: 
For this betrayed his Master ; and for this 
Made merchandise of the immortal souls 
Committed to his care — this was his sin. 

Of all who ofRce held unfairly, none 
Could plead excuse ; he least, and last of all. 
By solemn, awful ceremony, he 
Was set apart to speak the truth entire. 
By action, and by word ; and round him stood 
The people, from his lips expecting knowledge : 
One day in seven, the Holy Sabbath termed. 
They stood ; for he had sworn in face of God 
And man, to deal sincerely with their souls ; 
To preach the gospel for the gospel's sake; 
Had sworn to hate and put away all pride. 
All vanity, all love of earthly pomp ; 
To seek all mercy, meekness, truth, and grace ; 
And being so endowed himself, and taught. 
In them like works of holiness to move ; 
Dividing faithfully the word of hfe. 
And oft indeed the word of life he taught ; 
But practising, as thou hast heard, who could 
Believe ? Thus was religion wounded sore 
At her own altars, and among her friends. 
The people went away, and, like the priest, 
Fulfilhng what the prophet spoke before. 
For honour strove, and wealth, and place, as if 
The preacher had rehearsed an idle tale. 
The enemies of God rejoiced, and loud 
The unbeliever laughed, boasting a life 
Of fairer character than his, who owned, 
For king and guide, the undefiled One. 

Most guilty, villanous, dishonest man ! 
Wolf in the clothing of the gentle lamb ! 
Dark traitor in Messiah's holy camp ! 



Leper in saintly garb 1 — assassin masked 
In Virtue's robe ! vile hypocrite accursed! 
I strive in vain to set his evil forth. 
The words that should sufficiently accurse, 
And execrate such reprobate, had need 
Come glowing from the lips of eldest hell. 
Among the saddest in the den of woe. 
Thou saw'st him saddest, 'mong the damned, 
most damned. 

But why should I with indignation burn, 
Not with beseeming here, and long forgot ? 
Or why one censure for another's sin ? 
Each had his conscience, each his reason, will. 
And understanding, for himself to search. 
To choose, reject, believe, consider, act : 
And God proclaimed from heaven, and by an oath 
Confirmed, that each should answer for himself; 
And as his own peculiar work should be. 
Done by his proper self, should live, or die. 
But sin, deceitful and deceiving still. 
Had gained the heart, and reason led astray. 

A strange behef, that leaned its idiot back 
On folly's topmost twig — belief that God, 
Most wise, had made a world, had creatures 

made. 
Beneath his care to govern, and protect, — 
Devoured its thousands. Reason, not the true, 
Learned, deep, sober, comprehensive, sound; 
But bigoted, one-eyed, short-sighted Reason, 
Most zealous, and sometimes, no doubt, sincere- 
Devoured its thousands. Vanity to be 
Renowned for creed eccentrical — devoured 
Its thousands: but a lazy, corpulent, 
And over-credulous faith, that leaned on all 
It met, nor asked if 'twas a reed or oak ; 
Stepped on, but never earnestly inquired 
Whether to heaven or hell the journey led — 
Devoured its tens of thousands, and its hands 
Made reddest in the precious blood of souls. 

In Time's pursuits men ran till out of breath. 
The astronomer soared up, and counted stars. 
And gazed, and gazed upon the Heaven's bright 

face. 
Till .he dropt down dim-eyed into the grave: 
The numerist in calculations deep 
Grew gray : the merchant at his desk expired : 
The statesman hunted for another place. 
Till death o'ertook him, and made him his prey: 
The miser spent bis eldest energy. 
In grasping for another mite : the scribe 
Rubbed pensively his old and withered brow. 
Devising new impediments to hold 
In doubt the suit that threatened to end too soon: 
The priest collected tithes, and pleaded rights 
Of decimation to the very last. 
In science, learning, all philosophy. 
Men laboured all their days, and laboured hard, 
And dying, sighed how little they had done: 
But in religion they at once grew wise. 
A creed in print, though never understood ; 
A theologic system on the shelf, 
Was spiritual lore enough, and served their turn; 
But served it ill. They sinned, and never knew; 
For what the Bible said of good and bad. 
Of holiness and sin, they never asked. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



689 



Absurd — prodigiously absurd, to think 
That man's minute and feeble faculties, 
Even in the very childhood of his being, 
With mortal shadows dimmed, and wrapt around, 
Could comprehend at once the mighty scheme, 
Where rolled the ocean of eternal love; 
Where wisdom infinite its master stroke 
Displayed ; and where omnipotence, opprest, 
Did travel in the greatness of its strength; 
And everlasting justice lifted up 
The sword to smite the guiltless Son of God ; 
And mercy, smiling, bade the sinner go ! 
Redemption is the science, and the song 
Of all eternity : archangels day 
And night into its glories look : the saints, 
The elders round the throne, old in the years 
Of heaven, examine it perpetually ; 
And every horn', get clearer, ampler views 
Of right and wrong — see virtue's beauty more ; 
See vice more utterly depraved, and vile ; 
And this with a more perfect hatred hate ; 
That daily love with a more perfect love. 

But whether I for man's perdition blame 
Office administered amiss ; pursuit 
Of pleasure false ; perverted reason blind; 
Or indolence that ne'er inquired — I blame 
Effect and consequence ; the branch, the leaf. 
Who finds the fount and bitter root, the first 
And guiltiest cause whence sprung this endless 

woe, 
Must deep descend into the human heart. 
And find it there. Dread passion ! making men 
On earth, and even in hell, if Mercy yet 
Would stoop so low, unwilling to be saved, 
If saved by grace of God. — Hear then, in brief. 
What peopled hell, what holds its prisoners there. 

Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause 
Of all sin past, all pain, all woe to come. 
Unconquerable pride ! first, eldest sin ; 
Great fountain-head of evil ; highest source, 
Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent, 
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill. 
Pride at the bottom of the human heart 
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all 
That grew above. Great ancestor of vice ! 
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God ; 
Envy and slander ; malice and revenge; 
And murder, and deceit, and every birth 
Of damned sort, was progeny of pride. 
It was the ever-moving, acting force, 
The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish 
Of every sinner unrenewed, to be 
A god : — in purple or in rags, to have 
Himself adored : whatever shape or form 
His actions took : whatever phrase he threw 
About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life. 
To be the highest, was the inward cause 
Of all — the purpose of the heart to be 
Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow 
The knee to one who served and was dependent ? 
Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day, 
To prove he was his own proprietor. 
And independent of his God, that what 
He had might be esteemed his own, and praised 
As such. — He laboured still, and tried to stand 
Alone unpropped — to be obliged to none ; 
87 



And in the madness of his pride he bade 
His God farewell, and turned away to be 
A god himself; resolving to rely. 
Whatever came, upon his own right hand. 

O desperate frenzy ! madness of the will ! 
And drunkenness of the heart ! that nought could 

quench 
Bui floods of woe, poured from the sea of wrath, 
Behind which mercy set. To think to turn' 
The back on life original, and live — 
The creature to set up a rival throne 
In the Creator's realm — to deify 
A worm— and in the sight of God be proud— 
To lift an arm of flesh against the shafts 
Of the Omnipotent, and midst his wrath 
To seek for happiness — insanity 
Most mad ! guilt most complete ! Seest thou 

those worlds 
That roll at various distance round the throne 
Of God, innumerous, and fill the calm 
Of heaven with sweetest harmony, when saints 
And angels sleep — as one of these, from love 
Centripetal withdravvfing, and from light, 
And heat, and nourishment cut off, should rush 
Abandoned o'er the line that runs between 
Create and increate ; from ruin driven 
To ruin still, through the abortive waste ; 
So pride from God drew off the bad ; and so 
Forsaken of him, he lets them ever try 
Their single arm against the second death ; 
Amidst vindictive thunders lets them try 
The stoutness of their hearts ; and lets them try 
To quench their thirst amidst the unfading fire ; 
And to reap joy where he has sown despair ; 
To walk alone, unguided, unbemoaned. 
Where Evil dwells, and Death, and moral Night ; 
In utter emptiness to find enough ; 
In utter dark find light ; and find repose 
Where God with tempest plagues for evermore : 
For so they wished it, so did pride desire. 

Such was the cause that turned so many oil' 
Rebelliously from God, and led them on 
From vain to vainer still, in endless chase. 
And such the cause that made so many cheeks 
Pale, and so many knees to shake, when men 
Rose from the grave ; as thou shalt hear anon. 



BOOK III 



ANALYSIS. 



In this book the bard shows that, however man 
disobeyed the command to love God, truth, and 
virtue, they still strove to gain happiness ; but 
which could only be gained by obedience to the 
command ; for the attainment of which men 
pursued many strange and crooked paths, in 
none of which could it be found ; as happiness 
was indissolubly united to virtue. Yet men 
pursued the phantom Hope, which danced be- 
fore them in every path, and ever mocked their 
grasp, "till the earth, beneath them, broke 
and wrapt them in the grave." 



690 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Many sought for happiness in the enjoyment of 
pleasures, but it ever proved vain, in hope, or 
in possession. Many sought for happiness in 
the attainment of riches. This also mostly 
ended in bitterness and woe. Many pursued the 
phantom Fame, that fame which raised not in 
the resurrection morn, " Earthly fame," but 
all in vain. — Many sought happiness in dissi- 
pation, in inebriation; " deliberately resolving 
to be mad;" some in hawking and hunting, 
some in the search after curiosities, and some 
even in hopeless scepticism sought happiness. 

And thus mankind followed vanities in despite of 
wisdom's warning voice ; in despite of the teach- 
ing of all animated and unanimated nature ; in 
despite of the offers of mercy continually held 
out to them : in spite, even, of the threatenings 
of death, to "make repentance vain," "men 
rushed on determined, to ruin, and shut their 
ears to all advice, to all reproof, till death, " the 
great teacher," convinced each, too late, that 
"Eternity is all." 



Behold'st thou yonder, on the crystal sea, 
Beneath the throne of God, an image fair, 
And in its hand a mirror large and bright ? 
'Tis truth, immutable, eternal truth, 
In figure emblematical expressed. 
Before it Virtue stands, and smiling sees, 
Well pleased, in her reflected soul, no spot. 
The sons of heaven, archangel, seraph, saint, 
There daily read their own essential worth ; 
And, as they read, take place among the just ; 
Or high, or low, each as his value seems. 
There each his certain interest learns, his true 
Capacity; and, going thence, pursues, 
Unerringly through all the tracts of thought, 
As God ordains, best ends by wisest means. 

The Bible held this mirror's place on earth : 
But, few would read, or, reading, saw themselves. 
The chase was after shadows, phantoms strange. 
That in the twilight walked of Time, and mocked 
The eager hunt, escaping evermore ; 
Yet with so many promises and looks 
Of gentle sort, that he whose arms returned 
Empty a thousand times, still stretched them out, 
And, grasping, brought them back again unfilled. 

In rapid outline thou hast heard of man ; 
His death ; his offered life ; that life by most 
Despised ; the Star of God — the Bible, scorned, 
That else to happiness and heaven had led. 
And saved my lyre from narrative of woe. 
Hear now more largely of the ways of Time ; 
The fond pursuits and vanities of men. 

Love God, love truth, love virtue, and be 
happy : — 
These were the words first uttered in the ear 
Of every being rational made, and made 
For thought, or word, or deed accountable. 
Most men the first forgot, the second none. 
Whatever path they took, by hill or vale, 
By night or day, the universal wish, 
The aim, and sole intent, was happiness : 



But, erring from the heaven-appointed path, 
Strange tracks indeed they took through barren 

wastes, 
And up the sandy mountain chmbing toiled, 
Which, pining, lay beneath the curse of God, 
And nought produced : yet did the traveller look 
And point his eye before him greedily, 
As if he saw, some verdant spot, where grew 
The heavenly flower, where sprung the well of 

life. 
Where undisturbed felicity reposed ; 
Though Wisdom's eye no vestige could discern. 
That happiness had ever passed that way. 

Wisdom was right : for still the terms remained 
Unchanged, unchangeable ; the terms on which 
True peace was given to man ; unchanged as God, 
Who, in his own essential nature, binds 
Eternally to virtue happiness ; 
Nor lets them part through all his Universe. 

Philosophy, as thou shall hear, when she 
Shall have her praise — her praise and censure too, 
Did much, refining and exalting man ; 
But could not nurse a single plant that bore 
True happiness. — From age to age she toiled ; 
Shed from her eyes the mist that dimmed them 

still, 
Looked forth on man ; explored the wild and 

tame. 
The savage and polite, the sea and land, 
The starry heavens ; and then retired far back 
To meditation's silent shady seat ; 
And there sat pale, and thoughtfully, and weighed 
With wary, most exact and scrupulous care, 
Man's nature, passions, hopes, propensities. 
Relations, and pursuits, in reason's scale ; 
And searched and weighed, and weighed and 

searched again, 
And many a fair and goodly volume wrote, 
That seemed well worded too, wherein were 

found 
Uncountable receipts, pretending each, 
If carefully attended to, to cure 
Mankind of folly ; — to root out the briers, 
And thorns, and weeds that choked the growth. 

of joy ;— 

And showing too, in plain and decent phrase, 
Which sounded much like wisdom's, how to 

plant. 

To shelter, water, culture, prune, and rear 
The tree of happiness ; and oft their plans 
Were tried ; but still the fruit was green and eour. 

Of all the trees that in Earth's vineyard grew, 
And with their clusters tempted man to pull 
And eat, — one tree, one tree alone, the true 
Celestial manna bore, which filled the soul — 
The tree of Holiness — of heavenly seed; 
A native of the skies ; though stunted much, 
And dwarfed, by Time's cold, damp, ungenial soil, 
And chilling winds, yet yielding fruit so pure, 
So nourishing and sweet, as, on his way. 
Refreshed the pilgrim ; and begot desire 
Unquenchable to climb the arduous path 
To where her sister plants, in their own chme, 
Around the fount, and by the stream ot life. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



691 



Blooming beneath the Sun that never sets, — 
Bear fruit of perfect rehsh, fully ripe. 

To plant this tree, uprooted by the fall, 
To earth the Son of God descended, shed 
His precious blood ; and on it evermore, 
From off his living wings, the Spirit shook 
The dews of heaven, to nurse and hasten its 

growth. 
Nor was this care, this infinite expense, 
Not needed to secure the holy plant. 
To root it out, and wither it from earth, 
Hell strove with all its strength, and blew with all 
Its blasts ; and Sin, with cold, consumptive breath, 
Involved it still in clouds of mortal damp. 
Yet did it grow, thus kept, protected thus : 
And bear the only fruit of true delight ; 
The only fruit worth plucking under heaven. 

But few, alas ! the holy plant could see, 
For heavy mists that Sin around it threw 
Perpetually ; and few the sacrifice 
Would make by which alone its clusters stooped, 
And came within the reach of mortal man. 
For this, of him who would approach and eat, 
Was rigorously exacted to the full : — 
To tread and bruise beneath the foot, the world 
Entire ; its prides, ambitions, hopes, desires ; 
Its gold, and all its broidered equipage ; 
To loose its loves and friendships from the heart, 
And cast them off; to shut the ear against 
Its praise, and all its flatteries abhor ; 
And having thus behhid him thrown what seemed 
So good and fair, then must he lowly kneel. 
And with sincerity, in which the Eye 
That slumbers not, nor sleeps, could see no lack. 
This prayer pray: — "Lord God! thy will be 

done ; 
Thy holy will, howe'er it cross my own." 
Hard labour this for flesh and blood ! too hard 
For most it seemed : so, turning, they the tree 
Derided, as mere bramble, that could bear 
No fruit of special taste ; and so set out 
Upon ten thqusand diflerent routes to seek 
What they had left behind ; to seek what they 
Had lost — for still as something once possest. 
And lost, true happiness appeared : all thought 
They once were happy ; and even while they 

smoked 
And panted in the chase, believed themselves 
More miserable to-day than yesterday — 
To-morrow than to-day. When youth com- 
plained. 
The ancient sinner shook his hoary head, 
As if he meant to say : Stop till you come 
My length, and then you may have cause to sigh. 
At twenty, cried the boy, who now had seen 
Some blemish in his joys : How happily 
Plays yonder child that busks the mimic babe. 
And gathers gently flowers, and never sighs ! 
At forty in the fervour of pursuit. 
Far on in disappointment's dreary vale. 
The grave and sage-hke man looked back upon 
The stripling youth of plump unseared hope, 
Who galloped gay and briskly up behind — 
And, moaning, wished himself eighteen again. 
And he of threescore years and ten, in whose 
Chilled eye, fatigued with gaping after hope. 



Earth's freshest verdure seemed but blasted 

leaves, — 
Praised childhood, youth and manhood, and de- 
nounced 
Old age alone as barren of all joy. 
Decisive proof that men had left behind 
The happiness they sought, and taken a inost 
Erroneous path ; since every step they took 
Was deeper mire. Yet did they onward run. 
Pursuing Hope that danced before them still. 
And beckoned them to proceed ; and with their 

hands, 
That shook and trembled piteously with age. 
Grasped at the lying Shade, even till the earth 
Beneath them broke, and wrapt them in the grave. 

Sometimes, indeed, when wisdom in their ear 
Whispered, and with its disenchanting wand 
Effectually touched the sorcery of their eyes. 
Directly pointing to the holy tree. 
Where grew the food they sought, they turned, 

surprised 
That they had missed so long what now they 

found. 
As one upon whose mind some new and rare 
Idea glances, and retires as quick, 
Ere memory have time to write it down ; 
Stung with the loss, into a thoughtful cast, 
He throws his face, and rubs his vexed brow; 
Searches each nook and corner of his soul 
With frequent care ; reflects, and re-reflects. 
And tries to touch relations that may start 
The fugitive again ; and oft is foiled ; 
Till something like a seeming chance, or flight 
Of random fancy, when expected least. 
Calls back the wanderer thought — long sought 

in vain. 
Then does uncommon joy fill all his mind ; 
And still he wonders, as he holds it fast, 
What lay so near he could not sooner find : 
So did the man rejoice, when from his eye 
The film of folly fell, and what he day 
And night, and far and near, had idly searched, 
Sprung up before him suddenly displayed ; 
So wondered why he missed the tree so long. 

But, few returned from folly's giddy chase. 
Few heard the voice of wisdom, or obeyed. 
Keen was the search, and various, and wide 
Without, within, along the flowery vale, 
And up the rugged cliff", and on the top 
Of mountains high, and on the ocean wave. 
Keen was the search, and various, and wide, 
And ever and anon a shout was heard : 
Ho ! here's the tree of life ; come, eat, and live ! 
And round the new discoverer quick they flocked 
In multitudes, and plucked, and with great haste 
Devoured ; and sometimes in the lips 'twas sweet, 
And promised well ; but in the belly, gall. 
Yet after him that cried again : Ho ! here's 
The tree of life ; again they run, and pulled. 
And chewed again, and found it bitter still. 
From disappointment on to disappointment. 
Year after year, age after age pursued : 
The child, the youth, the hoary headed man, 
Alike pursued, and ne'er grew wise : for it 
Was folly's most peculiar attribute. 
And native act, to make experience void. 



692 



OBERT POLLOK, 



But hastily, as pleasures tasted turned 
To loathing and disgust, they needed not 
Even such experiment to prove them vain. 
In hope or in possession, Fear, alike, 
Boding disaster, stood. Over the flower 
Of fairest sort, that bloomed beneath the sun, 
Protected most, and sheltered from the storm, 
The Spectre, like a dark and thunderous cloud 
Hung dismally, and threatened, before the hand 
Of him that wished could pull it to descend, 
And o'er the desert drive its withered leaves ; 
Or, being pulled, to blast it unenjoyed, 
While yet he gazed upon its loveliness, 
And just began to drink its fragrance up. 

Gold many hunted — sweat and bled for gold ; 
Waked all the night, and laboured all the day. 
And what was this allurement, dost thou ask ? 
As dust dug from the bowels of the earth, 
Which, being cast into the fire, came out 
A shining thing that fools admired, and called 
A god ; and in devout and humble plight 
Before it kneeled, the greater to the less; 
And on its altar sacrificed ease, peace, 
Truth, faith, integrity ; good conscience, friends, 
Love, charity, benevolence, and all 
The sweet and tender sympathies of life ; 
And, to complete the horrid murderous rite 
And signalize their folly, offered up 
Their souls, and an eternity of bliss, 
To gain them — what ? an hour of dreaming joy ! 
A feverish hour tliat hasted to be done. 
And ended in the bitterness of woe. 

Most, for the luxuries it bought — the pomp. 
The praise, the glitter, fashion, and renown — 
This yellow phantom followed and adored. 
But there was one in folly farther gone ; 
With eye awry, incurable and wild. 
The laughing-stock of devils and of men, 
And by his guardian angel quite given up — 
The miser, who with dust inanimate 
Held wedded intercourse. Ill guided wretch ! 
Tho;t might'st have seen him at the midnight hour, 
When good men slept, and in light winged dreams 
Ascended up to God, — in wasteful hall. 
With vigilance and fasting worn to skin 
And bone, and wrapt in most debasing rags, — 
Thou might'st have seen him bending o'er his 

heaps, 
And holding strange communion with his gold ; 
And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear 
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed. 
And in his old, decrepit, withered hand. 
That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth 
Tp make it sure. Of all God made upright, 
And in their nostrils breathed a living .soul, 
Most fallen, most prone, most earthly, most de- 
based. 
Of all that sold Eternity for Time, 
None bargained on so easy terms with death. 
Illustrious fool ! nay, most inhuman wretch ! 
He sat among his bags, and with a look 
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor 
Away unalmsed ; and midst abundance died — 
Sorest of evils ! died of utter want. 

Before this Shadow, in the vales of earth, ~ 



Fools saw another glide, which seemed of more 
Intrinsic worth. Pleasure her name — good name, 
Though ill applied. A thousand forms she took, 
A thousand garbs she wore ; in every age 
And clime changing, as in her votaries changed 
Desire : but, inwardly, the same in all. 
Her most essential lineaments we trace ; 
Her general features every where alike. 

Of comely form she was, and fair of face ; 
And underneath her eyelids sat a kind • 

Of witching sorcery, that nearer drew 
Whoever with unguarded look beheld ; 
A dress of gaudy hue loosely attired 
Her lovehness ; her air and manner frank, 
And seeming free of all disguise ; her song 
Enchanting ; and her words, which sweetly dropt. 
As honey from the comb, most large of promise, 
Still prophesying days of new delight. 
And rapturous nights of undecaying joy ; 
And in her hand, where'er she went, she held 
A radiant cup that seemed of nectar full — 
And by her side danced fair delusive Hope. 
The fool pursued, enamoured ; and the wise 
Experienced man who reasoned much, and 

thought. 
Was sometimes seen laying Iris wisdom down, 
And vying with the stripling in the chase. 

Nor wonder thou: for she was really fair ; 
Decked to the very taste of flesh and blood. 
And many thought her sound within ; and gay 
And healthy at the heart ; but thought amiss : 
For she was full of all disease : her bones 
Were rotten ; consumption licked her blood, and 

drank 
Her marrow up ; her breath smelled mortally ; 
And in her bowels plague and fever lurked ; 
And in her very heart, and reins, and hfe. 
Corruption's worm gnawed greedily unseen. 

Many her haunts. Thou might'st have seen her 
now 
With Indolence, lolling on the mid-day couch. 
And whispering drowsy words ; and now at dawn, 
Loudly and rough, joining the sylvan horn ; 
Or sauntering in the park, and to the tale 
Of slander giving ear ; or sitting fierce, 
Rude, blasphemous, malicious, raving, mad. 
Where fortune to the fickle die was bound. 

But chief she loved the scene of deep debauch, 
Where revelry, and dance, and frantic song. 
Disturbed the sleep of honest men. And where 
The drunkard sat, she entered in, well pleased, 
With eye brimful of wanton mirthftilness, 
And urged him still to fill another cup. 

And at the shadowy twilight — in the dark 
And gloomy night, I looked, and saw her come 
Abroad, arrayed in harlot's soft attire ; 
And walk without in every street, and lie , 
In wait at every corner, full of guile : 
And, as the unwary youth of simple heart. 
And void of understanding, passed, she caught 
And kissed him, and, with lips of lying, said : 
I have peace-oflferings with me ; I have paid 
My vows this day ; and therefore came I forth 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



693 



To meet thee, and to seek thee diligently, 
To seek thy face, and I have found thee here. 
My bed is decked with robes of tapestry. 
With carved work, and sheets of linen fine ; 
Perfumed with aloes, myrrh, and cinnamon. 
Sweet are stolen waters ! pleasant is the bread 
In secret eaten I the good man is from home. 
Come, let us take our fill of love till morn 
Awake; let us delight ourselves with loves. 
With much fair speech she caused the youth to 

yield ; 
And forced him with the flattering of her tongue. 
I looked, and saw him follow to her house, 
As goes the ox to slaughter ; as the fool 
To the correction of the stocks ; or bird j 

That hastes into the subtle fowler's snare, | 

And knows not, simple thing, 'tis for its life. j 

I saw him enter in ; and heard the door ! 

Behind them shut ; and in the dark still night, 1 
When God's unsleeping eye alone can see, 
He went to her adulterous bed. At morn I 

I looked, and saw him not among the youths. 
I heard his father mourn, his mother weep : 
For none returned that went with her. The dead i 
Were in her house ; her guests in depths of hell ; 
She wove the winding-sheet of souls, and laid 
Them in the urn of everlasting death. 

Such was the Shadow fools pursued on earth 
Under the name of pleasure, — fair outside, 
Within corrupted, and corrupting still: 
Ruined, and ruinous : her sure reward. 
Her total recompense, was still, as he, 
The bard, recorder of Earth's Seasons, sung, 
"Vexation, disappointment, and remorse." 
Yet at her door the young and old, and some 
Who held high character among the wise, 
Together stood, — and strove among themselves. 
Who first should enter, and be ruined first. 

Strange competition of immortal souls ! 
To sweat for death ! to strive for misery ! 
But think not Pleasure told her end was death. 
Even human folly then had paused at least. 
And given some signs of hesitation ; nor 
Arrived so hot, and out of breath at woe. 
Though contradicted every day by facts, 
That sophistry itself would stumble o'er. 
And to the very teeth a liar proved 
Ten thousand times, as if imconscious still 
Of inv/ard blame, she stood, and waved her hand 
And pointed to her bower, and said to all 
Who passed : Take yonder flowery path ; my 

steps 
Attend ; I lead the smoothest way to heaven ; 
This world receive as surety for the next. 
And many simple men, most simple, though 
Renowned for learning much, and wary skill, 
Believed, and turned aside, and were undone. 

Another leaf of finished Time we turn. 
And read of Fame, terrestrial Fame, which died, 
And rose not at the Resurrection morn. 
Not that by virtue earned, the true lenown. 
Begun on earth, and lasting in the skies. 
Worthy the lofty wish of seraphim, — 
The approbation of the Eye that sees 
The end from the beginning, sees from cause 



To most remote effect: of it we read 

In book of God's remembrance, in the book 

Of life, from which the quick and dead were 

judged ; 
The book that lies upon the throne, and tells 
Of glorious acts by saints and angels done ; 
The record of the holy, just, and good. 

Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist ^ 
Of Time, though meagre all, and ghostly thin, 
Most unsubstantial, unessential shade, 
Was earthly Fame. She was a voice alone, 
And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of men. 
She never thought ; but gabbled ever on ; 
Applauding most what least deserved applause ; 
The motive, the result was nought to her : 
The deed alone, though dyed in human gore 
And steeped in widow's tears, if iH stood out 
To prominent display, she talked of much, 
And roared around it with a thousand tongues. 
As changed the wind her organ, so she changed 
Perpetually ; and whom she praised to-day. 
Vexing his ear with acclamation loud, 
To-morrovi' blamed, and hissed him out of sight. 

Such was her nature, and her practice such: 
But, ! her voice was sweet to mortal ears ; 
And touched so pleasantly the strings of pride 
And vanity, which in the heart of man 
Were ever strung harmonious to her note. 
That many thought, to live without her song 
Was rather death than life : to live unknown, 
Unnoticed, unrenowned ! to die unpraised! 
Unepitaphed ! to go down to the pit, 
And moulder into dust among vile worms. 
And leave no whispering of a name on earth ! 
Such thought was cold about the heart, and 

chilled 
The blood. Who could endure it ? who could 

choose, 
Without a struggle, to be swept away 
From all remembrance, and have part no more 
With living men ? Philosophy failed here ; 
And self- approving pride. Hence it became 
The aim of most, and main pursuit, to win 
A name — to leave some vestige as they passed, 
That following ages might discern they once 
Had been on earth, and acted something there. 

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried. 
The man of science to the shade retired. 
And laid his head upon his hand, in mood 
Of awful thoughtfulness ; and dived, and dived 
Again — deeper and deeper still, to sound 
The cause remote — resolved, before he died 
To make some grand discovery, by which 
He should be known to all posterity. 

And in the silent vigils of the night, 
When uninspired men reposed, the bard, 
Ghastly of countenance, and from his eye 
Oft streaming wild unearthly fire, sat up 
And sent imagination forth ; and searched 
The far and near — heaven, earth, and gloomy 

1 hell— 

For fiction new, for thought unthought before ; 

j And when some curious rare idea peered 
Upon his mind, he dipped his hasty pen. 



694 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



And by the glimmering lamp, or moonlight beam, 
That thro' his lattice peeped, wrote fondly down 
What seemed in truth imperishable song. 

And sometimes too, the reverend divine, 
In meditation deep of holy things, 
And vanities of Time, heard Fame's sweet voice 
Approach his ear — and hung another flower. 
Of earthly sort, about the sacred truth ; 
And ventured whiles to mix the bitter text, 
With relish suited to the sinner's taste. 

And ofttimes too, the simple hind, who seemed 
Ambitionless, arrayed in humble garb. 
While round him, spreading, fed his harmless 

flock, 
Sitting was seen, by some wild warbhng brook, 
Carving his name upon his favourite staff: 
Or, in ill favoured letters, tracing it 
Upon the aged thorn : or on the face 
Of some conspicuous oft frequented stone, 
With persevering wondrous industry ; 
And hoping, as he toiled amam, and saw 
The characters take form, some other wight. 
Long after he was dead, and in his grave. 
Should loiter there at noon and read his name. 

In purple some, and some in rags, stood forth 
For reputation ; some displayed a limb 
Well-fashioned: some of lowlier mind, a cane 
Of curious workmanship, and marvellous twist. 
In strength some sought it, and in beauty more. 
Long, long the fair one laboured at the glass, 
And, being tired, called in auxihar skill, 
To have her sails, before she went abroad. 
Full spread, and nicely set, to catch the gale 
Of praise. And much she caught, and much 

deserved, 
When outward loveliness was index fair 
Of purity v/ithin : but oft, alas I 
The bloom was on the skin alone ; and when 
She saw, sad sight ! the roses on her cheek 
Wither, and heard the voice of fame retire 
And die away, she heaved most piteous sighs. 
And wept most lamentable tears : and whiles. 
In wild delirium, made rash attempt — 
Unholy mimickry of Nature's work ! — 
To re-create, with frail and mortal things, 
Her wither'd face. Attempt how fond and vain ! 
Her frame itself soon mouldered down to dust ; 
And, in the land of deep forgetfulness. 
Her beauty and her name were laid beside 
Eternal silence, and the loathsome worm ; 
Into whose darkness flattery ventured not ; 
Where none had ears to hear the voice of Fame. 

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried. 
And awful, oft, the wickedness they wrought. 
To be observed, some scrambled up to thrones. 
And sat in vestures dripping wet with gore. 
The warrior dipped his sword in blood, and wrote 
His name on lands and cities desolate. 
The rich bought fields, and houses built, and 

raised 
The monumental piles up to the clouds. 
And called them by their names. And, strange 

to tell : 
Rather than be unknown, and pass away 



Obscurely to the grave, some, small of soul, . 
That else had perished unobserved, acquired 
Considerable renown by oaths profane. 
By jesting boldly with all sacred things. 
And uttering fearlessly whate'er occurred ; — 
Wild, blasphemous, perditionable thoughts, 
That Satan in them moved ; by wiser men 
Suppressed, and quickly banished from the mind. 

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried : 
But all in vain. Who grasped at earthly fame, 
Grasped wind : nay, worse, a serpent grasped, 

that through 
His hand shd smoothly, and was gone; but left 
A sting behind which wrought him endless pain : 
For oft her voice w*as old Abaddon's lure, 
By which he charmed the foolish soul to death. 
So happiness was sought in pleasure, gold. 
Renown — by many sought. But should I sing 
Of all the trifling race, my time, thy faith, 
Would fail — of things erectly organized. 
And having rational, articulate voice, 
And claiming outward brotherhood with man : 
Of him that laboured sorely, in his sweat 
Smoking afar, then hurried to the wine, 
Dehberately resolving to be mad : 
Of him who taught the ravenous bird to fly 
This way or that, thereby supremely blest : 
Or rode in fury with the howling pack. 
Affronting much the noble animal. 
He spurred into such company : of him 
Who down into the bowels of the earth 
Descended deeply, to bring up the wreck 
Of some old earthen ware, which having stowed, 
With every proper care, he home returned 
O'er many a sea, and many a league of land. 
Triumphantly to show the marvellous prize : 
And him that vexed his brain, and theories built 
Of gossamer upon the brittle winds ; 
Perplexed exceedingly why shells were found 
Upon the mountain tops ; but wondering not 
Why shells were found at all, more wondrous 

still ! 
Of him who strange enjoyment took in tales 
Of fairy folk, and sleepless ghosts, and sounds 
Unearthly, whispering in the ear of night 
Disastrous things : and him who still foretold 
Calamity which never came, and lived 
In terror all his days of cornels rude. 
That should unmannerly and lawless drive 
Athwart the path of Earth, and burn mankind: 
As if the appointed hour of doom, by God 
Appointed, ere its time should come : as if 
Too small the number of substantial ills. 
And real fears to vex the sons of men. — 
These, — had they not possessed immortal souls, 
And been accountable, might have been past 
With laughter, and forgot ; but as it was. 
And is — their folly asks a serious tear. 

Keen was the search, and various, and wide, 
For happiness. Take one example more — 
So strange that common fools looked on amazed ; 
And wise and sober men together drew. 
And trembling stood ; and angels in the heavens 
Grew pale, and talked of vengeance as at hand — 
The sceptic's route— the unbehever's, who. 
Despising reason, revelation, God, 



THE COURSE OF TIME, 



695 



And kicking 'gainst the pricks of conscience, 

rushed 
Deliriously upon the bossy shield 
Of the Omnipotent; and in his heart 
Purposed to deify the idol Chance. 
And laboured hard — oh, labour worse than 

nought ! 
And toiled with dark and crooked reasoning, 
To make the fair and lovely Earth, which dwelt 
In sight of Heaven, a cold and fatherless. 
Forsaken thing, that wandered on, forlorn 
Undestined, uncompassioned, unupheld ; 
A vapour eddying in the whirl of chance, 
And soon to vanish everlastingly. 
He travailed sorely, and made many a tack. 
His sails oft shifting, to arrive — dread thought ! 
Arrive at utter nothingness ; and have 
Being no more — no feeling, memory, 
No lingering consciousness that e'er he was. 
Guilt's midnight wish ! last, most abhorred 

thought I 
Most desperate effort of extremest sin 1 
Others, preoccupied, ne'er saw true hope ; 
He, seeing, aimed to stab her to the heart, 
And with infernal chemistry to wring 
The last sweet drop from sorrow's cup of gall ; 
To quench the only ray that cheered the earth, 
And leave mankind in night which had no star. 
Others the streams of pleasure troubled; he 
Toiled much to dry her very fountain head. 
Unpardonable man ! sold under sin I 
He was the Devil's pioneer, who cut 
The fences down of virtue, sapped her walls, 
And opened a smooth and easy way to death. 
Traitor to all existence ! to all life ! 
Soul-suicide ! determined foe of being ! 
Intended murderer of God, Most High ! 
Strange road, most strange ! to seek for happi- 
ness ! 
Hell's mad-houses are full of such ; too fierce. 
Too furiously insane, and desperate, 
To rage unbound 'mong evil spirits damned ! 

Fertile was earth in many things: not least 
In fools, who mercy both and judgment scorned ; 
Scorned love, experience scorned: and onward 

rushed 
To swift destruction, giving all repreof, 
And all instruction, to the winds ; and much 
Of both they had — and much despised of both. 

Wisdom took up her harp, and stood in place 
Of frequent concourse — stood in every gate. 
By every way, and walked in every street ; 
And, lifting up her voice, proclaimed : Be wise. 
Ye fools ! be of an understanding heart. 
Forsake the wicked : come not near his house : 
Pass by : make haste : depart, and turn away. 
Me follow — me, whose ways are pleasantness, 
Whose paths are peace, whose end is perfect joy. 
The Seasons came and went, and went and came, 
To teach men gratitude ; and as they passed. 
Gave warning of the lapse of time, that else 
Had stolen unheeded by : the gentle Flowers 
Retired, and, stooping o'er the wilderness, 
Talked of humility, and peace, and love. 
The Dews came down unseen at evening-tide, 
A.nd silently their bounties shed, to teach 



Mankind unostentatious charity. 

With arm in arm the forest rose on high. 

And lesson gave of brotherly regard. 

And, on the rugged mountain-brow exposed, 

Bearing the blast alone — the ancient oak 

Stood, hfting high his mighty arm, and still 

To courage in distress exhorted loud. 

The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the 

breeze, 
Attuned the heart to melody and love. 
Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept 
Essential love ; and, from her glorious bow, 
Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace. 
With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God 
Of sweetest accent made, she whispered still, 
She whispered to Revenge — " Forgive, forgive !" 
The Sun rejoicing round the earth, announced 
Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God. 
The Moon awoke, and from her maiden face, 
Shedding her cloudy locks, looked meekly forth. 
And with her virgin stars walked in the heavens. 
Walked nightly there, conversing as she walked, 
Of purity, and holiness, and God. 
In dreams and visions. Sleep instructed much- 
Day uttered speech to day, and night to night 
Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue : the 

grave. 
The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each 
A tongue, that ever said — Man ! think of God ! 
Think of thyself I think of eternity ! 
Fear God, the thunders said ; fear God, the waves; 
Fear God, the lightning of the storm replied ; 
Fear God, deep loudly answered back to deep. 
And, in the temples of the Holy One — 
Messiah's messengers, the faithful few — 
Faithful 'mong many false — the Bible opened, 
And cried : Repent ! repent ye sons of men ! 
Believe, be saved: and reasoned awfully 
Of temperance, righteousness, and judgment soon 
To come — of ever-during hfe and death. 
And chosen bards from age to age awoke 
The sacred lyre, and full on folly's ear. 
Numbers of righteous indignation poured. 
And God, omnipotent, when mercy failed. 
Made bare his holy arm ; and with the stroke 
Of vengeance smote ; the fountains of the deep 
Broke up; heaven's windows opened, and sent 

on men 
A flood of wrath ; sent plague and famine forth ; 
With earthquake rocked the world beneath ; with 

storms 
Above laid cities waste, and turned fat lands 
To barrenness ; and with the sword of war 
In fury marched, and gave them blood to drink. 
Angels remonstrated : Mercy beseeched : 
Heaven smiled, and frowned : Hell groaned : Time 

fled : Death shook 
His dart, and threatened to make repentance 

vain. — 
Incredible assertion ! men rushed on 
Determinedly to ruin : shut their ears. 
Their eyes to all advice, to all reproof — 
O'er mercy and o'er judgment downward rushed 
To misery : and, most incredible 
Of all I to misery rushed along the way 
Of disappointment and remorse, where still 
At every step, adders, in Pleasure's form. 
Stung mortally; and Joys, — whose bloomy cheeks 



696 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Seemed glowing high with immortahty, 
Whose bosom prophesied superfluous bhss, 
While in the arms received, and locked in close 
And riotous embrace, turned pale, and cold, 
And died, and smelled of putrefaction rank ; 
Turned, in the very moment of delight, 
A loathsome, and heavy corpse, that with the 

clear 
And hollow eyes of Death, stared horribly. 

All tribes, all generations of the earth, 
Thus wantonly to ruin drove alike. 
We heard indeed of golden and silver days ; 
And of primeval innocence unstained — 
A pagan tale ! but by baptized bards. 
Philosophers, and statesmen, who were still 
Held wise and cunning men, talked of so much, 
That most beheved it so, and asked not why. 

The pair, the family first made, were ill; 
And for their great peculiar sin incurred 
The Curse, and left it due to all their race ; 
And bold example gave of every crime — 
Hate, murder, unbehef, reproach, revenge. 
A time, 'tis true, there came, of which thou soon 
Shalt hear — the Sabbath Day, the Jubilee 
Of Earth, when righteousness and peace prevailed. 
This time except, who writes the history 
Of men, and writes it true, must write them bad. 
Who reads, must read of violence and blood. 
The man who could the story of one day 
Peruse, the wrongs, oppressions, cruelties. 
Deceits, and perjuries, and vanities, 
Rewarded worthlessness, rejected worth, 
Assassinations, robberies, thefts, and wars, 
Disastrous accidents, life thrown away. 
Divinity insulted. Heaven despised. 
Religion scorned ; — and not been sick at night. 
And sad, had gathered greater store of mirth, 
Than ever wise man in the world could find. 

One cause of folly, one especial cause, 
Was this — few knew what wisdom was, though 

well 
Defined in God's pwn words, and printed lar.ge. 
On heaven and earth in characters of light, 
And sounded in the ear by every wind. 

Wisdom is humble, said the voice of God. 
'Tis proud, the world replied. Wisdom, said God, 
Forgives, forbears, and suffers, not for fear 
Of man, but God. Wisdom revenges, said 
The world ; is quick and deadly of resentment ; 
Thrusts at the very shadow of affront, 
And hastes, by death, to wipe its honour clean. 
Wisdom, said God, loves enemies, entreats. 
Solicits, begs for peace. Wisdom, replied 
The world, hates enemies; will not ask peace. 
Conditions spurns, and triumphs in their fall. 
Wisdom mistrusts itself, and leans on heaven. 
Said God. It trusts and leans upon itself, 
The world replied. Wisdom retires, said God, 
And counts it bravery to bear reproach. 
And shame, and lowly poverty upright; 
And weeps with all who have just cause to weep. 
Wisdom, replied the world, struts forth to gaze ; 
Treads the broad stage of life with clamorous foot ; 
Attracts all praises ; counts it bravery 



Alone to wield the sword, and rush on death ; 
And never weeps, but for its own disgrace. 
Wisdom, said God, is highest, when it stoops 
Lowest before the Holy Throne, throws down 
Its crown abased, forgets itself, admires, 
And breathes adoring praise. There wisdom 

stoops 
Indeed, the world replied — there stoops, because 
It must : but stoops with dignity ; and thinks 
And meditates the while of inward worth. 

Thus did Almighty God, and thus the world, 
Wisdom define. And most the world believed, 
And boldly called the truth of God a lie. 
Hence, he that to the worldly wisdom shaped 
His character, became the favourite 
Of men — was honourable termed ; a man 
Of spirit; noble, glorious, lofty soul ! 
And as he crossed the earth in chase of dreams, 
Received prodigious shouts of warm applause. 
Hence, who to godly wisdom framed his life, 
Was counted mean, and spiritless, and vile ; 
And as he walked obscurely in the path 
Which led to heaven, fools hissed with serpent 

tongue 
And poured contempt upon his holy head ; 
And poured contempt on all who praised his^name. 

But false as this account of wisdom was — 
The world's I mean — it was its best: the creed 
Of sober, grave, and philosophic men. 
With much research and cogitation framed ; 
Of men, who with the vulgar scorned to sit. 

The popular belief seemed rather worse, 
When heard replying to the voice of truth. 
The wise man, said the Bible, walks with God, 
Surveys, far on, the endless line of hfe ; 
Values his soul ; thinks of eternity ; 
Both worlds considers, and provides for both ; 
With reason's eye his passions guards ; abstains 
From evil ; lives on hope, on hope, the fruit 
Of faith ; looks upward ; purifies his soul ; 
Expands his wings, and mounts into the sky; 
Passes the sun, and gains his father's house ; 
And drinks with angels from the fount of bliss. 

The multitude aloud replied, (replied 
By practice, for they were no bookish men, 
Nor apt to form their principles in words,) 
The wise man first of all eradicates, 
As much as possible, from out his mind, 
All thought of death, God, and eternity; 
Admires the world, and thinks of Time alone ; 
Avoids the Bible, all reproof avoids ; 
Rocks conscience, if he can, asleep ; puts out 
The eye of reason ; prisons, tortures, binds ; 
And makes her thus, by violence and force, 
Give wicked evidence against herself: 
Lets passion loose ; the substance leaves ; pursues 
The shadow vehemently, but ne'er o'ertakes ; 
Puts by the cup of holiness and joy ; 
And drinks, carouses deeply in the bowl 
Of death ; grovels in dust ; pollutes, destroys 
His soul : is miserable to acquire 
More misery ; deceives to be deceived ; 
Strives, labours to the last, to shun the truth ; 
Strives, labours to the last, to damn himself; 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



697 



Turns desperate, shudders, groans, blasphemes, 

and dies, 
And sinks— where could he else ? — to endless woe, 
And drinks the wine of God's eternal wrath. 

The learned thus, and thus the unlearned world, 
Wisdom defined — in sound they disagreed ; 
In substance, in effect, in end the same ; 
And equally to God and truth opposed ; 
Opposed as darkness to the light of heaven. 
Yet were there some that seemed well-meaning 

men, 
Who systems planned, expressed in supple words, 
Which praised the man as wisest, that in one 
United both ; pleased God, and pleased the world; 
And with the saint, and with the sinner had. 
Changing his garb, unseen, a good report. 
And many thought their definition best, 
And in their wisdom grew exceeding wise. 

Union abhorred ! dissimulation vain I 
Could holiness embrace the harlot sin? 
Could life wed death ? could God with Mammon 

dwell ? 
Oh, foolish men ! oh, men for ever lost ! 
In spite of mercy lost, in spite of wrath ! 
In spite of Disappointment and Remorse, 
Which made the way to ruin ruinous ! 

Hear what they were : — the progeny of sin 
Alike ; and oft combined ; but differing much 
In mode of giving pain. As felt the gross. 
Material part, when in the furnace cast, 
So felt the soul ; the victim of remorse. 
It was a fire which on the verge of God's 
Commandments burned, and on the the vitals fed 
Of all who passed. Who passed, there met 

remorse ; 
A violent fever seized his soul ; the heavens 
Above, the earth beneath, seemed glowing brass. 
Heated seven times ; he heard dread voices speak, 
And mutter horrid prophecies of pain, 
Severer and severer yet to come : 
And as he writhed and quivered, scorched within, 
The fury round his torrid temples flapped 
Her fiery wings, and breathed upon his lips, 
And parched tongue, the withered blasts of hell. 
It was the suffering begun, thou saw'st 
In symbol of the Worm that never dies. 

The other — Disappointment, rather seemed 
Negation of delight. It was a thing [ 

Sluggish and torpid, tending towards death. ' 

Its breath was cold, and made the sportive blood [ 
Stagnant, and dull, and heavy round the wheels ! 
Of life : the roots of that whereon it blew, ; 

Decayed, and with the genial soil no more 
Held sympathy — theleaves, the branches drooped, ■ 
And mouldered slowly down to formless dust ; I 
Not tossed and driven by violence of winds ; 
But withering where they sprung, and rotting! 

there. 
Long disappointed, disappointed still. 
The hopeless man, hopeless in his main wish, ; 
As if returning back to nothing, felt ; 
In strange vacuity of being hung, ! 

And rolled and rolled his eye on emptiness | 



That seemed to grow more empty every hour. 

— One of this mood I do remember well : 

We name him not — what now are earthly names? 

In humble dwelling born, retired, remote. 

In rural quietude ; -mong hills, and streams, 

And melancholy deserts, where the sun 

Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here 

And there, watching his little flock ; or heard 

The ploughman talking to his steers — his hopes, 

His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling, 

Among the dews, and holy mountain airs ; 

And fancy coloured them with every hue 

Of heavenly lovehness ; but soon his dreams , 

Of childhood fled away — those rainbow dreams. 

So innocent and fair, that withered age. 

Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye, 

And, passing all between, looked fondly back ' 

To see them once again ere he departed. 

These fled away — and anxious thought, that 

wished 
To go, yet whither knew not well to go. 
Possessed his soul, and held it still a while. 
He listened, and heard from far the voice of 

Fame — 
Heard, and was charmed ; and deep and sudden 

vow. 
Of resolution made to be renowned ; 
And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. 
His parents saw — his parents, whom God made 
Of kindest heart — saw, and indulged his hope. 
The ancient page he turned ; read much ; thought 

much ; 
And with old bards of honourable name 
Measured his soul severely ; and looked up 
To fame, ambitious of no second place. 
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised 

fair : 
And out before him opened many a path 
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved 
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring ; 
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he 

seized ; 
The harp he loved — loved better than his life 
The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held 
TJie ear of thought a captive to its song. 
He searched, and meditated much ; and whiles 
With rapturous hand in secret touched the lyre, 
Aiming at glorious strains — ^and searched again 
For theme deserving of immortal verse : 
Chose now, and now refused unsatisfied; 
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still. 

Thus stood his mind, when round him came a 

cloud, 
Slowly and heavily it came ; a cloud 
Of ills we mention not : enough to say 
'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. 
He saw its dark approach ; and saw his hopes, 
One after one, put out, as nearer still 
It drew his soul : but fainted not at first ; 
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man 
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst: 
Endure whate'er should come, without 9. sigh 
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs, 
The bitterest cup that Time could measure 

out; 
And, having done, look up, and ask for more. 



698 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



He called Philosophy, and with his heart 
Reasoned : he called Religion too, but called 
Jieluctantly, and therefore was not heard. 
Ashamed to be o'ermatehed by earthly woes, 
He sought, and sought with eyes that dimmed 

apace , 
To find some avenue to light, some'place 
On which to rest a hope — but sought in vain. 
Dark and darker still the darkness grew : 
At length he sunk, and Disappointment stood 
His only comforter, and mournfully 
Told all was past. His interest in life. 
In being, ceased : and now he seemed to feel, 
And shuddered as he felt, his powers of mind 
Decaying in the spring time of his day : 
The vigorous weak became ; the clear, obscure ; 
Memory gave up her charge ; Decision reeled ; 
And from her flight Fancy returned, returned 
Because she found no nourishment abroad. 
The blue heavens withered, and the moon, andsun, 
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn 
And evening withered ; and the eyes, and smiles. 
And faces of all men and women withered ; 
Withered to him; and all the universe. 
Like something which had been, appeared ; but 

now 
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried 
No more to hope : wished to forget his vow : 
Wished to forget his harp ; then ceased to wish. 
That was his last. Enjoyment now was done. 
He had no hope — no wish — and scarce a fear. 
Of being sensible, and sensible 
Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God 
Had made superfluously, and needed not 
To build creation with ; but back again 
To Nothing threw, and left it in the void, 
With everlasting sense that once it was. 

Oh, who can tell what days, what nights he 
spent 
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe ! 
And who can tell how many, glorious once, 
To others and themselves of promise full. 
Conducted to this pass of human thought. 
This wilderness of intellectual death, J 

Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth, 
Leaving no vestige of •memorial there . 

It was not so with him : when thus he lay. 
Forlorn of heart, withered and desolate, 
As leaf of Autumn, which the wolfish winds, 
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase 
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes, 
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten 
Eternally — God passed in mercy by — 
His praise be ever new ! — and on him breathed 
And bade him live ; and put into his hands 
A holy harp, into his lips a song. 
That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time. 
Ambitious now but little to be praised 
Of men alone ; ambitious most to be 
Approved of God, the Judge of all ; and have 
His name recorded in the book of life. 

Such things were Disappointment and Re- 
morse; 
And oft united both, as friends severe. 
To teach men wisdom -. but the fool, untaught, 



Was foolish still. His ear he stopped ; his eyes 
He shut; and blindly, deafly obstinate, 
Forced desperately his way from woe to woe. 

One place, one only place, there was on earth, 
Where no man ere was fool — however mad. 
" Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die." 
Ah ! 'twas a truth most true ; and sung in Time, 
And to the sons of men, by one well known 
On earth for lofty verse, and lofty sense. 
Much hast thou seen, fair youth ! much heard; 

but thou 
Hast never seen a death-bed, never heard 
A dying groan. Men saw it often : 'twas sad, 
To all most sorrowful and sad — to guilt 
'Twas anguish, terror, darkness, without bow. 
But O, it had a most convincing tongue, 
A potent oratory, that secured 
Most mute attention: and it spoke the truth 
So boldly, plainly, perfectly distinct. 
That none the meaning could mistake, or doubt; 
And had withal a disenchanting power, 
A most omnipotent and wondrous power, 
Which in a moment broke, for ever broke, 
And utterly dissolved the charms, and spells, 
And cunning sorceries of Earth and Hell. 
And thus it spoke to him who ghastly lay, 
And struggled for another breath : Earth's cup 
Is poisoned ; her renown, most infamous ; 
Her gold, seem as it may, is really dust ; 
Her titles, slanderous names ; her praise, re- 
proach ; 
Her strength, an idiot's boast ; her wisdom, blind ; 
Her gain, eternal loss ; her hope, a dream ; 
Her love, her friendship, enmity with God ; 
Her promises, a lie ; her smile, a harlot's ; 
Her beauty, paint, and rotten within ; her plea- 
sures. 
Deadly assassins masked ; her laughter, grief; 
Her breasts, the sting of Death; her total sum, 
Her all, most utter vanity ; and all 
Her lovers mad, insane most grievously, 
And most insane, because they know it not. 

Thus did the mighty reasoner. Death, declare; 
And volumes more : and in one word confirmed 
The Bible whole — Eternity is all. 
But few spectators, few believed of those 
Who staid behind. The wisest, best of men, 
Believed not to the letter full ; but turned. 
And on the world looked forth, as if they thought 
The well-trimmed hypocrite had something still 
Of inward worth : the dying man alone 
Gave faithful audience, and the words of Death 
To the last jot beheved ; believed and felt ; 
But oft, alas ! believed and felt too late. 

And had Earth, then, no joys ? no native sweets. 
No happiness, that one who spoke the truth 
Might call her own? She had ; true, native sweets • 
Indigenous delights, which up the Tree 
Of holiness, embracing as they grew. 
Ascended and bore fruit of heavenly taste, 
In pleasant memory held, and talked of oft, 
By yonder saints who walk the golden streets 
Of New Jerusalem, and compass round 
The throne, with nearest vision blest — of these 
Hereafter thou shalt hear, delighted hear. 
One page of beauty in the life of man. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



699 



BOOK IV. 



ANALYSIS. 

The essence of earthly liberty and independence 
was united with lust for power ; ' ' each sought to 
make all subject to his will," while real liberty 
was the freedom from sin : he only was free 
"whom the truth of God made free." 

Strange conflicts exhibited by the inconsistent and 
opposite principles of the Christian heart. Yet 
final victory was found on the side of holiness, 
and after all his internal struggles, the Christian 
was triumphant, and brought to the world of 
glory. 

The Books composed in Time, together with their 
authors were doomed to oblivion under the 
curse which returns dust to dust. 

The Books entitled "The Medicine of the Mind," 
which were written for the help of virtue, were 
alone exempted from oblivion. 

The inscrutable and mysterious providences of 
God, why deeds decreed were accountable, the 
Trinity, and Incarnation, were subjects, which 
Theology, Philosophy, Fancy, and finite wis- 
dom, toiled in vain to comprehend. 

The unequal distribution of worldly possessions 
and intellectual gifts, plainly taught that God 
did not estimate men by outward circumstances 
only, or by their knowledge, but by their moral 
worth. Illustrated by the history of the gifted 
Byron. 



The world had much of strange and won- 
derful : 
fn passion much, in action, reason, will ; 
And much in Providence, which still retired 
From human eye, and led philosophy, 
That ill her ignorance liked to own, through dark 
And dangerous paths of speculation wild. 
Some striking features, as we pass, we mark. 
In order such as memory suggests. 

One passion prominent appears — the lust 
Of power, which ofttimes took the fairer name 
Of liberty, and hung the popular flag 
Of freedom out. Many, indeed, its names. 
When on the throne it sat, and round the neck 
Of miUions riveted its iron chain. 
And on the shoulders of the people laid 
Burdens unmerciful — it title took 
Of tyranny, oppression, despotism; 
And every tongue was weary cursing it. 
When in the multitude it gathered strength, 
And, like an ocean bursting from its bounds. 
Long beat in vain, went forth resistlessly. 
It bore the stamp and designation, then. 
Of popular fury, anarchy, rebellion — 
And honest men bewailed all order void ; 
All laws, annulled ; all property, destroyed: 
The venerable, murdered in the streets ; 
The wise, despised ; streams, red with human 
blood; 



Harvests, beneath the frantic foot trode down; 
Lands, desolate ; and famine, at the door. 

These are a part ; but other names it had, 
Innumerous as the shapes and robes it wore. 
But under every name — in nature still 
Invariably the same, and always bad. 
We own, indeed, that oft against itself 
It fought, and sceptre both and people gave 
An equal aid, as long exemplified 
In Albion's isle — Albion, queen of the seas — 
And in the struggle, something like a kind 
Of civil liberty grew up, the best 
Of mere terrestrial root ; but sickly too, 
And living only, strange to tell ! in strife 
Of factions equally contending ; dead, 
That very moment dead, that one prevailed. ' 

Conflicting cruelly against itself. 
By its own hand it fell ; part slaying part. 
And men who noticed not the suicide. 
Stood wondering much, why earth from age to age, 
Was still enslaved, and erring causes gave. 

This was earth's hberty, its nature this, 
However named, in whomsoever found — 
And found it was in all of woman born — 
Each man to make all subject to his will ; 
To make them do, undo, eat, drink, stand, move, 
Talk, think, and feel, exactly as he chose. 
Hence the eternal strife of brotherhoods. 
Of individuals, families, commonwealths. 
The root from which it grew was pride — ^bad root! 
And bad the fruit it bore. Then wonder not 
That long the nations from it richly reaped 
Oppression, slavery, tyranny, and war ; 
Confusion, desolation, trouble, shame. 
And, marvellous though it seem, this monster^ 

when 
It took the name of slavery, as oft 
It did, had advocates to plead its cause ; 
Beings that walked erect, and spoke Hke men; 
Of Christian parentage descended too. 
And dipt in the baptismal font, as sign 
Of dedication to. the Prince who bowed 
To death, to set the sin-bound prisoner free. 

Unchristian thought ! on what pretence soe'er 
Of right inherited, or else acquired ; 
Of loss, or profit, or what plea you name, 
To buy and sell, to barter, whip, and hold 
In chains, a being of celestial make — 
Of kindred form, of kindred faculties ; 
Of kindred feelings, passions, thoughts, desires; 
Born free, and heir of an immortal hope : — 
Thought villanous, absurd, detestable ! 
Unworthy to be harboured in a fiend ! 
And only overreached in wickedness 
By that, birth too of earthly hberty, 
Which aimed to make a reasonable man 
By legislation think, and by the sword 
Believe. This was that liberty renowned, 
Those equal rights of Greece and Rome, where 

men, 
All, but a few, were bought, and sold, and 

scourged. 
And killed, as interest or caprice enjoined: 
In aftertimes talked of, written of so much, 
That most, by sound and custom led away, 



700 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Believed the essence answered to the name. 
Historians on this theme were long and warm. 
Statesmen, drunk with the fumes of vain debate, 
In lofty swelling phrase, called it perfection; 
Philosophers its rise, advance, and fall, 
Traced carefully ; and poets kindled still 
As memory brought it up — their lips were touched 
With fire, and uttered words that men adored, 
Even he — true bard of Zion, holy man ! 
To whom the Bible taught this precious verse : 
"He is the freeman whom the truth makes free," 
By fashion, though by fashion Uttle swayed, 
Scarce kept his harp from pagan freedom's praise. 

The captive prophet, whom Jehovah gave 
The future years, described it best, when he 
Beheld it rise in vision of the night — 
A dreadful beast, and terrible, and strong 
Exceedingly, with mighty iron teeth ; 
And lo, it brake in pieces, and devoured, 
And stamped the residue beneath its feet ! 

True liberty was Christian, sanctified, 
Baptized, and found in Christian hearts alone. 
First born of Virtue, daughter of the skies. 
Nursling of truth divine ; sister of all 
The graces, meekness, holiness, and love : 
Giving to God, and man, and all below. 
That symptom showed of sensible existence, 
Their due unasked ; fear to whom fear was due ; 
To ill, respect, benevolence, and love. 
Companion of religion ! where she came 
There freedom came : where dwelt, there free- 
dom dwelt ; 
Ruled where she ruled, expired where she ex- 
pired. 
"He was the freeman whom the truth made 

free:" — 
Who first of all, the bands of Satan broke ; 
Who broke the bands of Sin ; and for his soul, 
In spite of fools consulted seriously ; 
In spite of fashion persevered in good ; 
In spite of wealth or poverty, upright ; 
Who did as reason, not as fancy bade ; 
Who heard temptation sing, and yet turned not 
Aside; saw sin bedeck her flowery bed. 
And yet would not go up ; felt at his heart 
The sword unsheathed, yet would not sell the 

truth ; 
Who, having power, had not the will to hurt ; 
Who blushed alike to be, or have a slave ; 
Who blushed at nought but sin, feared nought but 

God: 
Who, finally, in strong integrity 
Of soul, 'midst want of riches, or disgrace, 
Uphfted calmly sat, and heard the waves 
Of stormy folly breaking at his feet ; 
Now shrill with praise, now hoarse with foul re- 
proach. 
And both despised sincerely ; seeking this 
Alone— the approbation of his God, 
Which still with conscience witnessed to his 
peace. 



The man, the stale in whom she ruled, was free; 
All else were slaves of Satan, Sin, and Death. 

Already thou hast something heard of good 
And ill, of vice and virtue, perfect each: 
Of those redeemed, or else abandoned quite; 
And more shalt hear, when at the judgment day 

The characters we of mankind review. 

Seems aught which thou hast heard astonishing ? 

A greater wonder now thy audience asks : 

Phenomena in all the universe ; 

Of moral being most anomalous ; 

Inexphcable most, and wonderful. 

I'll introduce thee to a single heart ; 

A human heart : we enter not the worst ; 

But one by God's renewing spirit toucli«d; 

A Christian heart, awaked from sleep of sin. 

What seest thou here ? what mark'st ? observe it 

well. — 
Will, passion, reason; hopes, fears ; joy, distress ; 
Peace, turbulence ; simplicity, deceit ; 
Good, ill ; corruption, immortality; 
A temple of the Holy Ghost, and yet 
Oft lodging fiends; the dwelling place of all 
The heavenly virtues — charity and truth. 
Humility, and holiness, and love ; 
And yet the common haunt of anger, pride, 
Hatred, revenge, and passions foul with lust; 
Allied to heaven, yet parleying oft with hell : 
A soldier listed in Messiah's band, 
Yet giving quarter to Abaddon's troops : 
With seraphs drinking from the well of life, 
And yet carousing in the cup of death ; 
An heir of heaven, and walking thitherward, 
Yet casting back a covetous eye on earth : 
Emblem of strength, and weakness; loving now, 
And now abhorring sin ; indulging now. 
And now repenting sore ; rejoicing now. 
With joy unspeakable, and full of glory, 
Now weeping bitterly, and clothed in dust. 
A man willing to do, and doing not ; 
Doing, and willing not ; embracing what 
He hates, what most he loves abandoning. 
Half saint, and sinner half — half life, half death: 
Commixture strange of Heaven, and Earth, and 
Hell! 



This, this is freedom, such as angels use, 
And kindred to the liberty of God. 
First born of Virtue ! daughter of the skies ! 



What seest thou here ? what mark'st ? a battle- 
field- 
Two banners spread — two dreadful fronts of war, 
In shock of opposition fierce engaged. — 
God, angels, saw whole empires rise in arms ; 
Saw kings exalted ; heard them tumbled down ; 
And others raised, — and heeded not: but here, 
God, angels, looked ; God, angels, fought ; and 

Hell, 
With all his legions, fought : here erroi fought 
With truth ; with darkness, light ; and life with 

death : 
And here not kingdoms, reputations, worlds, 
Were won ; the strife was for Eternity ; 
The victory was never-ending bliss ; 
The badge a chaplet from the tree of life. 

While thus within contending armies strove, 
Without the Christian had his troubles too. 
For, as by God's unalterable laws. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



701 



And ceremonial of the heaven of heavens, 
Virtue takes place of all, and worthiest deeds 
Sit highest at the feast of bliss ; on Earth 
The opposite was fashion's rule polite. 
Virtue the lowest place at table took, 
Or served, or was shut out : the Christian still 
Was mocked, derided, persecuted, slain : 
And Slander, worse than mockery, or sword. 
Or death, stood nightly by her horrid forge, 
And fabricated lies to stain his name. 
And wound his peace — but still he had a source 
Of happiness, that men could neither give 
Nor take away : the avenues that led 
To immortality before him lay ; * 

He saw, with faith's far reaching eye, the fount 
Of life, his Father's house, his Saviour God, 
And borrowed thence to help his present want. 

Encountered thus with enemies without, 
Within, like bark that meets opposing winds 
And floods, this way, now that, she steers 

athwart ; 
Tossed by the wave, and driven by the storm ; 
But still the pilot, ancient at the helm, 
The harbour keeps in eye ; and afier much 
Of danger past, and many a prayer rude, 
He runs her safely in. — So was the man 
Of God, beset, so tossed by adverse winds; 
And so his eye upon the land of life 
He kept. Virtue grew daily stronger, sin 
Decayed ; his enemies repulsed, retired ; 
Till at the stature of a perfect man 
In Christ arrived, and, with the Spirit filled, 
He gained the harbour of eternal rest. 

But think not virtue else than dwells in God 
Essentially, was perfect, without spot. 
Examine yonder suns '. at distance seen, 
How bright they burn! how gloriously they shine, 
Mantling the worlds around in beamy light ! 
But nearer viewed, we through their lustre see 
Some dark behind : so virtue was on earth, 
So is in heaven, and so shall always be. 
Though good it seem, immaculate, and fair. 
Exceedingly to saint or angel's gaze. 
The uncreated Eye, that searches all, 
Sees it imperfect ; sees, but blames not; sees. 
Well-pleased; and best with those who deepest 

dive 
Into themselves, and know themselves the most : 
Taught thence in humbler reverence to bow 
Before the Holy One ; and oftener view 
His excellence, that in them- still may rise. 
And grow his likeness, growing evermore. 

Nor think that any, born of Adam's race. 
In his own proper virtue, entered heaven. 
Once fallen from God and perfect holiness, 
No being, unassisted, e'er could rise, 
Or sanctify the sin-polluted soul. 
Oft was the trial made ; but vainly made : 
So oft as men in Earth' .s best livery clad. 
However fair, approached the gates of heaven, 
And stood presented to the eye of God, 
Their impious pride so oft his soul abhorred. 
Vain hope ! in patch-work of terrestial grain. 
To be received into the courts above ; 



As vain, as towards yonder suns to soar 
On wing of waxen plumage melting soon. 

Look round, and view those numbers infinite, 
That stand before the throne, and in their hands 
Palms waving high, token of victory 
For battles won — these are the sons of men 
Redeemed, the ransomed of the Lamb of God: 
All these, and millions more of kindred blood, 
Who now are out on messages of love — 
All these — their virtue, beauty, excellence, 
And joy, are purchase of redeeming blood ; 
Their glory, bounty of redeeming love. — 
O love divine ! — harp, lift thy voice on high ! 
Shout, angels ! shout aloud, ye sons of men ! 
And burn, my heart, with the eternal flame ! 
My lyre, be eloquent with endless praise ! 
O love divine ! immeasurable love ! 
Stooping from heaven to earth, from earth to hell, 
Without beginning, endless, boundless love ! 
Above all asking giving far, to those 
Who nought deserved, who nought deserved but 

death. 
Saving the vilest I saving me ! love 
Divine ! O Saviour God ! O Lamb, once slain! 
At thought of thee, thy love, thy flowing blood. 
All thoughts decay ; all things remembered, fade ; 
All hopes return ; all actions done by men 
Or angels, disappear, absorbed and lost : 
All fly — as from the great white throne, which he. 
The prophet, saw, in vision wrapt — the heavens, 
And earth, and sun, and moon, and starry host. 
Confounded fled, and found a place no more. 

One glance of wonder, as we pass, deserve 
The books of Time. Productive was the world. 
In many things ; but most in books : hke swarms 
Of locusts, which God sent to vex the land 
Rebellious long, admonished long in vain. 
Their numbers they poured annually on man. 
From heads conceiving still : perpetual birth ! 
Thou wonderest how the world contained them 

all! 
Thy wonder stay: like men, this was their 

doom : — 
That dust they were, and should to dust return. 
And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, 
Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves 

were green. 
And on them fell, as fell on every age. 
As on their authors fell, oblivious Night, 
Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still 
Impenetrable, motionless, and sad, 
Having his dismal leaden plumage, stirred 
By no remembrancer, to show the men 
Who after came what was concealed beneath. 

The stoi^y telling tribe, alone, outran 
AH calculation far, and left behind. 
Lagging, the swiftest numbers : dreadful, even 
To fancy, was their never-ceasing birth ; 
And room had lacked, had not their life been 

short 
Excepting some — their definition take 
Thou thus, exprest in gentle phrase, which leaves 
Some truth behind : A Novel was a book 
Three-volumed, and once read, and oft crammed 

full 



702 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



Of poisonous error, blackening every page ; 
And oftener still of trifling, second-hand 
Remark, and old, diseased, putrid thought ; 
And miserable incident, at war 
With nature, with itself and truth at war : 
Yet charming still the greedy reader on, 
Till, done, he tried to recollect his thoughts, 
And nothing found but dreaming emptiness. 
These, like ephemera, sprung in a day, 
From lean and shallow soiled brains of sand. 
And in a day expired : yet while they lived. 
Tremendous ofttimes was the popular roar ; 
And cries of — Live for ever ! — struck the skies. 

One kind alone remained, seen thro' the gloom 
And sullen shadow of the past ; as lights 
At intervals they shone, and brought the eye, 
That backward travelled, upward, till arrived 
At him, who, on the hills of Midian, sang 
The patient man of Uz ; and from the lyre 
Of angels, learned the early dawn of Time. 
Not light and momentary labour these, 
But discipline and self-denial long. 
And purpose staunch, and perseverance, asked. 
And energy that inspiration seemed. 
Composed of many thoughts, possessing, each, 
Innate and underived vitality: 
Which having fitly shaped, and well arranged 
In brotherly accord, they builded up 
A stately superstructure, that, nor wind, 
Nor wave, nor shock of falling years could move ; 
Majestic and indissolubly firm, 
As ranks of veteran warriors in the field ; 
Each, by himself alone, and singly seen — 
A tower of strength ; in massy phalanx knit, 
And in embattled squadron rushing on — 
A sea of valour, dread ! invincible ! 

Books of this sort, or sacred, or profane. 
Which virtue helped, were titled not amiss. 
The medicine of the mind : who read them, read 
Wisdom, and was refreshed ; and on his path 
Of pilgrimage with healthier step advanced. 

In mind, in matter, much was difficult 
To understand : but what in deepest night 
Retired, inscrutable, mysterious, dark. 
Was evil ; God's decrees ; and deeds decreed, 
Responsible. Why God, the just, the good. 
Omnipotent and wise, should suffer sin 
To rise. Why man was free, accountable ; 
Yet God foreseeing, overruling all. 
Where'er the eye could turn, whatever tract 
Of moral thought it took, by reason's torch, 
Or Scripture's led, before it still this mount 
Sprung up, impervious, insurmountable. 
Above the human stature rising far ; 
Horizon of the mind — surrounding still 
The vision of the soul with clouds and gloom. 
Yet did they oft attempt to scale its sides, 
And gain its top. Philosophy, to cUmb, 
With all her vigour toiled from age to age ; 
From age to age, Theology, with all 
Her vigour, toiled ; and vagrant Fancy toiled. 
Not weak and foolish only, but the wise, 
Patient, courageous, stout, sound-headed man, 
Of proper disciphne, of excellent wind, 
And strong of intellectual limb, toiled hard ; : 



And oft above the reach of common eye 

Ascended far, and seemed well nigh the top : 

But only seemed ; for still another top 

Above them rose, till giddy grown, and mad, 

With gazing at these dangerous heights of God, 

They tumbled down, and in their raving said, 

They o'er the summit saw: and some believed; 

Believed a lie ; for never man on earth. 

That mountain crossed, or saw its farther side. 

Around it lay the wreck of many a Sage — 

Divine — Philosopher ; and many more 

Fell daily, undeterred by milhons fallen ; 

Each wondering why he failed to comprehend 

God, ancfwith finite measure infinite. 

To pass it, was no doubt desirable ; 

And few of any intellectual size, 

That did not sometime in their day attempt ; 

But all in vain ; for as the distant hill. 

Which on the right, or left, the traveller's eye 

Bounds, seems advancing as he walks, and oft 

He looks, and looks, and thinks to pass ; but still 

It forward moves, and mocks his baffled sight. 

Till night descends and wraps the scene in gloom: 

So did this moral height the vision mock ; 

So lifted up its dark and cloudy head. 

Before the eye, and met it evermore. 

And some, provoked, accused the righteous God. 

Accused of what ? hear human boldness now ; 

Hear guilt, hear folly, madness, all extreme : 

Accused of what ? the God of truth accused 

Of cruelty, injustice, wickedness ! 

Abundant sin ! Because a mortal man, 

A worm at best of small capacity. 

With scarce an atom of Jehovah's works 

Before him, and with scarce an hour to look 

Upon them, should presume to censure God— 

The infinite and uncreated God ! 

To sit in judgment — on Himself, his works, 

His providence ! and try, accuse, condemn! 

If there is aught, thought or to think, absurd, 

Irrational, and wicked, this is more — 

This most ; the sin of devils, or of those 

To devils growing fast ; wise men and good. 

Accused themselves, not God ; and put their hands 

Upon their mouths and in the dust adored. 

The Christian's faith had many mysteries too. 
The uncreated holy Three in One ; 
Divine incarnate ; human in divine ; 
The inward call; the Sanctifying Dew 
Coming unseen, unseen departing thence ; 
Anew creating all, and yet not heard ; 
CompeUing, yet not felt :— mysterious these ; 
Not that Jehovah to conceal them wished ; 
Not that religion wished. The Christian faith, 
Unlike the timorous creeds of pagan priest 
Was frank, stood forth to view, invited all 
To prove, examine, search, investigate, 
And gave herself a light to see her by. 
Mysterious these — ^because too large for eye 
Of man, too long for human arm to mete. 

Go to yon mount, which on the north ^ib 
stands 
Of New Jerusalem, and lifts her head 
Serene in glory bright, except the hill. 
The Sacred Hill of God, whereon no foot 
Must tread, highest of all creation's walks, 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



703 



And overlooking all, in prospect vast, 

From out the ethereal blue — that cliff ascend ; 

Gaze thence ; around thee look ; nought novv^ 

impedes 
Thy view : yet still thy vision, purified 
And strong although it be, a boundary meets. 
Or rather thou wilt say, thy vision fails 
To gaze throughout illimitable space, 
And find the end of infinite : and so 
It was with all the mysteries of faith ; 
God sent them forth unveiled to the full gaze 
Of man, and asked him to investigate ; 
But reason's eye, however purified. 
And on whatever tall, and goodly height 
Of observation placed, to comprehend 
Them fully, sought in vain. In vain seeks still ; 
But wiser now and humbler, she concludes 
From what she knows already of his love. 
All gracious, that she cannot understand ; 
And gives him credit, reverence, praise for all. 

Another feature in the ways of God, 
That wondrous seemed, and made some men 

complain, 
Was the unequal gift of worldly things. 
Great was the difference, indeed, of men 
Externally, from beggar to the prince. 
The highest take, and lowest — and conceive 
The scale between. A noble of the earth. 
One of its great, in splendid mansion dwelt ; 
Was robed in silk and gold ; and every day 
Fared sumptuously ; was titled, honoured, served. 
Thousands his nod awaited, and his will 
For law received : whole provinces his march 
Attended, and his chariot drew, or on 
Their shoulders bore aloft the precious man. 
Milhons, abased, fell prostrate at his feet ; 
And millions more thundered adoring praise. 
As far as eye could reach, he called the land 
His own, and added yearly to his fields. 
Like tree that of the soil took healthy root, 
He grew on every side, and towered on high, 
And over half a nation shadowing wide, 
He spread his ample boughs ; air, earth, and sea. 
Nature entire, the brute, and rational, 
To please him ministered, and vied among 
Themselves, who most should his desires prevent. 
Watching the moving of his rising thoughts 
Attentively, and hasting to fulfil. 
His palace rose and kissed the gorgeous clouds ; 
Streams bent their music to his will ; trees sprung ; 
The naked waste put on luxuriant robes ; 
And plains of happy cottages cast out 
Their tenants, and became a hunting-field. 
Before him bowed the distant isles, with fruits 
And spices rare ; the south her treasures brought ; 
The east and west sent ; and the frigid north 
Came with her offering of glossy furs. 
Musicians soothed his ears with airs select ; 
Beauty held out her arms ; and every man 
Of cunning skill, and curious device. 
And endless multitudes of liveried wights, 
His pleasure waited with obsequious look. 
And when the wants of nature were supplied, 
And common -place extravagances filled, 
Beyond their asking ; and caprice itself, 
In all its zig-zag appetites, gorged full. 
The man new wants, and new expenses planned : 



Nor planned alone : wise, learned, sober men, 
Of cogitation deep, took up his case. 
And planned for him new modes of folly wild ; 
Contrived new wishes, wants, and wondrous 

means 
Of spending with despatch : yet after all, 
His fields extended still, his riches grew. 
And what seemed splendour infinite, increased. 
So lavishly upon a single man 
Did Providence his bounties daily shower. 

Turn now thy eye, and look on poverty ! 
Look on the lowest of her ragged sons ! 
We find him by the way, sitting in dust; 
He has no bread to eat, no tongue to ask ; 
No limbs to walk ; no home, no house, no friend. 
Observe his goblin cheek ; his wretched eye ; 
See how his hand, if any hand he has. 
Involuntarily opens, and trembles forth. 
As comes the traveller's foot ; and hear his groaiij 
His long and lamentable groan, announce 
The want that gnaws within ; severely now. 
The sun scorches and burns his old bald head ; 
The frost now glues him to the chilly earth ; 
On him hail, rain, and tempest, rudely beat ; 
And all the winds of heaven, in jocular mood, 
Sport with his withered rags, that, tossed about, • 
Display his nakedness to passers by. 
And grievously burlesque the human form. 
Observe him yet more narrowly: his limbs, 
With palsy shaken, about him blasted He ; 
And all his flesh is full of putrid sores, 
And noisome wounds, his bones of racking pains. 
Strange vesture this for an immortal soul '. 
Strange retinue to wait a lord of earth ! 
It seems as Nature, in some surly mood, 
After debate and musing long, had tried. 
How vile and miserable thing her hand 
Could fabricate, then made this meagre man: 
A sight so full of perfect misery. 
That passengers their faces turned away, 
And hasted to be gone ; and delicate 
And tender women took another path. 

This great disparity of outward things 
Taught many lessons ; but this taught in' chief, 
Though learned by few ; that God no value set, 
That man should none, on goods of worldly kind ; 
On transitory, frail, external things, 
Of migratory, ever-changing sort. 
And farther taught, that in the soul alone, 
The thinking, reasonable, wiUing soul, 
God placed the total excellence of man; 
And meant him evermore to seek it there. 

But stranger still the distribution seemed 
Of intellect ; though fewer here complained; 
Each with his share, upon the whole, content. 
One man there was — and many such you might 
Have met — who never had a dozen thoughts 
In all his fife, and never changed their course ; 
But told them o'er, each in its 'customed place, 
From morn till night, from youth till hoary age. 
Little above the ox which grazed the field 
His reason rose : so weak his memory. 
The name his mother called him by, he scarce 
Remembered; and his judgment so untaught, 
That what at evening played along the swamp, * 



704 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Fantastic, clad in robe of fiery hue, 

He thought the devil in disguise, and fled 

With quivering heart, and winged footsteps home. 

The word philosophy he never heard, 

Or science ; never heard of liberty, 

Necessity, or laws of gravitation : 

And never had an unbelieving doubt. 

Beyond his native vale he never looked; 

But thought the visual line, that girt him round, 

The world's extreme : and thought the silver 

moon. 
That nightly o'er him led her virgin host. 
No broader than his father's shield. He lived — 
Lived where his father lived — died where he died ; 
Lived happy, and died happy, and was saved. 
Be not surprised. He loved, and served his God,. 

There was another, large of understanding. 
Of memory infinite, of judgment deep : 
Who knew all learning, and aU science knew ; 
And all phenomena, in heaven and earth, 
Traced to their causes ; traced the labyrinths 
Of thought, association, passion, will; 
And all the subtile, nice affinities 
Of matter, traced ; its virtues, motions, laws; 
And most familiarly and deeply talked 
Of mental, moral, natural, divine. 
Leaving the earth at will, he soared to heaven, 
And read the glorious visions of the skies ; 
And to the music of the rolling spheres 
Intelligently listened ; and gazed far back 
Into the awful depths of Deity ; 
Did all that mind assisted most could do ; 
And yet in misery lived, in misery died, 
Because he wanted hohness of heart. 

A deeper lesson this to mortals taught, 
And nearer cut the h ranches of their pride ; 
That not in mental, hut in moral worth, 
God excellence placed ; and only to the good, 
To virtue, granted happiness alone. 

Admire the goodness 'yi Almighty God I 
He riches gave, he intellectual strength 
To few, and therefore none commands to be 
Or rich, or learned ; nor promises reward 
Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth 
Bestowed ; and moral tribute asked from all. 
And who that could not pay f who born so poor, 
Of intellect so mean, as not to know 
What seemed the best; and, knowing, might not 

do? 
As not to know what God and conscience bade ? 
And v/hat they bade, not able to obey ? 
And he who acted thus fulfilled the law 
Sternal, and its promise reaped of peace : 
Found peace this way alone : who sought it else, 
Sought mellow grapes beneath the ice pole ; 
Sought blooming roses on the cheek of death ; 
Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades. 
Take one example — to our purpose quite. 
A man of rank, and of capacious soul ; 
Who riches had, and fame beyond desire : 
An heir of flattery, to titles born, 
And reputation, and luxurious life. 
Yet not content with ancestorial name ; 
Or to be known, because his fathers were : 
. He on this height hereditary stood. 



And gazing higher, purposed in his heart 

To take another step. Above hmi seemed 

Alone the mount of Song — the lofiy seat 

Of canonized bards ; and thitherward, ' 

By nature taught, and inward melody, 

In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. 

No cost was spared. What books he wished, he 

read : 
What sage to hear, heard: what scenes to see. 
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days, 
Britannia's mountain walks, and heath-girt lakes, 
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks, 
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul 
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love. 
Then travel came, and took him where he wished. 
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp; 
And mused alone on ancient mountain brows ; 
And mused on battle-fields, where valour fought 
In other days ; and mused on ruins gray 
With years : and drank from old and fabulous 

wells; 
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets 

. plucked ; 
And mused on famous tombs ; and on the wave 
Of ocean mused ; and on the desert waste. 
The heavens and earth of every country saw 
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt. 
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul. 
Thither he went, and meditated there. 

He touched his harp, and nations heard, en- 
tranced. 
As some vast river of unfailing source. 
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 
And opened new fountains in the human heart. 
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight. 
In other men, his, fresh as morning rose, 
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at 

home 
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though 

great, 
Beneath their argument seemed struggling ; 

whiles 
i He from above descending, stooped to touch 
The lofiiest thought ; and proudly stooped, aa 

though 
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 
At will with all her glorious majesty. 
He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's mane," 
And, played familiar with his hoary locks. 
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ; 
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing. 
In sportive twist — the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed : 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song, beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters 

were; 
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and 

storms. 
His brothers — younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. All passions of all men — 
The wild and tame — the gentle and severe ; 
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 
All creeds ; all seasons. Time, Eternity ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



705 



All that was hated, and all ihat was dear ; 
All that was hoped, all that was feared by man, 
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves. 
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
With terror now he froze the cowering blood, 
And now dissolved ths heart in tenderness ; 
Yet would not tremble, would not weep him- 
self: 
But back into his soul retired, alone. 
Dark, sullen, proud : gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late 
To desolation swept, retired in pride, 
Exulting in the glory of his might. 
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. 

As some fierce comet of tremendous size. 
To which the stars did reverence, as it passed ; 
So he through learning, and through fancy took 
His flight sublime ; and on the loftiest top 
Of Fame's dread mountain sat ; not soiled, and 

worn. 
As if he from the earth had laboured up ; 
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, 
He looked, which down from higher regions 

came, 
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. 

The nations gazed, and wondered much, and 

praised : 
Critics before him fell in humble plight ; 
Confounded fell ; and made debasing signs 
To catch his eye; and stretched, and sw^elled 

themselves 
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words 
Of admiration vast : and many too, 
Many that aimed to imitate his flight, 
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, 
And gave abundant sport to v'^^fter days. 

Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered 

much. 
And praised : and many called his evil good. 
Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness : 
And kings to do him honour tooli delight. 
Thus full of titles, flattery, honour, fame ; 
Beyond desire, beyond ambition full. 
He died. — He died of what ? Of wretchedness. 
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 
Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank 

draughts 
That common millions might have quenched — 

then died 
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, 
Fell from his arms, abhorred; his passions died ; 
Died all but dreary, solitary pride ; 
A*id all his sympathies in being died. 
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, 
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, 
A nd then retiring, left it there to rot 
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven : 
So he, cut from the sympathies of life, 
And east ashore from pleasure's boisterous 

surge — 
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing; 
Scorched, and degolate, and blasted soul ; 
A gloomy vvfilderness of dying thought — 
R9 



Repined, and groaned, and withered from the 

earth. 
His groanings filled the land his numbers filled ; 
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. Poor man ! 
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. 

Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt. 
That not with natural or mental wealth, 
Was God delighted, or his peace secured : 
That not in natural or mental wealth, 
Was human happiness or grandeur found. 
Attempt how monstrous ! and how surely vain ! 
With things of earthly sort, with aught but God, 
With aught but moral excellence, truth and love. 
To satisfy and fill the immortal soul ! 
Attempt, vain inconceivably ! attempt. 
To satisfy the ocean with a drop ; 
To marry Immortality to Death ; 
And with the unsubstantial Shade of Timet 
To fill the embrace of all Eternity ! 



BOOK V. 



ANALYSIS. 

Actions done in Time liv*in Eternity,. 

Men may be absolved from the consequence ol 
sin, but the evil deed, although not imputed, 
remains a dark spot on the annals of the past. 

True happiness was within the reach of all ; and 
. that, which was joy to one, was misery to 
another. 

True happiness always accompanied duty. 

Among the contributions to happiness vi'ere, the 
bliss and joys of childhood, of maternal affec- 
tion, of youthful love, and of friendship ; the 
study of nature ; recollections of the past ; anti- 
cipations of the future, repose after labour, and 
even grief aflbrded joys. 

From whatever sources men experienced joy, the 
pious enjoyed the same in the highest degree. 

Of the Millennium, the thousand years of Mes- 
siah's reign, foretold by the prophets, preceded 
by the conflict between Truth and Error. 



Praise God, ye servants of the Lord ! praise 
God, 
Ye angels strong ! praise God, ye sons of men ! 
Praise him who made, and who redeemed your 

souls ; 
Who gave you hope, reflection, reason, will ; 
Minds that can pierce eternity remote. 
And live at once on future, present, past ; 
Can speculate on systems yet to make, 
And back recoil on ancient days of Time. 
Of Time, soon past ; soon lost among the shadea 
Of buried years. Not so the actions done 
In Time ; the deeds of reasonable men ; 
As if engraven with pen of iron grain. 
And laid in flinty rock, they stand unchanged. 
Written on the various pages of the past : 
If good, in rosy characters of love ; 
If bad, in letters of vindictive fire. 



706 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



God may forgive, but cannot blot them out. 
Systems begin, and end; eternity 
Rolls on his endless years ; and men absolved 
By mercy from the consequence, forget 
The evil deed ; and God imputes it not: 
But neither systems ending nor begun. 
Eternity that rolls his endless years, 
Nor men absolved, and sanctified, and washed 
By mercy from the consequence ; nor yet 
Forgetfulness ; nor God imputing not, 
Can wa?h the guilty deed once done, from out 
The faithful annals of the past ; who reads, 
And many read, there finds it, as it was, 
And is, and shall for ever be — a dark. 
Unnatural and loathly moral spot. 

The span of Time was short indeed ; and now 
Three-fourths were past, the last begun, and on 
Careering to its close ; which soon we sing : 
But first our promise we redeem, to tell 
The joys of Time — her joys of native growth ; 
And briefly must, what longer tale deserves. 

Wake, dear remembrances! wake, childhood- 
days ! 
Loves, friendships, wake '. and wake, thou morn 

and even ! 
Sun! with thy orient locks; night, moon, and 

stars ! 
Aiid thou, celestial bow ! and all ye woods, 
And hills, and vales ; first trod in dawning life ! 
And hours of holy musing, wake ! wake, earth, 
And, smiling to remembrance, come ; and bring, 
For thou canst bring, meet argument for song 
Of heavenly harp ; meet hearing for the ear 
Of heavenly auditor, exalted high. 

God gave much peace on earth, much holy 
joy: ■ . 
Oped fountains of perennial spring, whence flowed 
Abundant happiness to all who wished 
To drink : not perfect bliss ; that dwells with us, 
Beneath the eyelids of the Eternal One, 
And sits at his right hand alone : but such, 
As well deserved the name — abundant joy. 
Pleasures, on which the memory of saints 
Of highest glory, still delights to dwell. 

It was, we own, subject of much debate, 
And worthy men stood on opposing sides, 
Whether the cup of mortal life had more 
Of sour or sweet. Vain question this, when asked 
In general terms, and worthy to be left 
Unsolved. If most was sour — the drinker, not 
The cup, we blame. Each in himself the means 
Possessed to turn the bitter sweet, the sweet 
To bitter ; hence from out the self-same fount. 
One nectar drank, another draughts of gall. 
Hence from the self-same quarter of the sky. 
One saw ten thousand angels look, and smile ; 
Another saw as many demons frown. 
One discord heard, where harmony inclined 
Another's ear. The sweet was in the taste ; 
The beauty in the eye ; and in the ear 
The melody ; and in the man — for God 
Necessity of sinning laid on none — 
To form the taste, to purify the eye. 
And tune the ear, that all he tasted, saw, 



Or heard, might be harmonious, sweet and fair. 
Who would might groan : who would, might sing 
for joy. 

Nature lamented little ; undevoured 
By spurious appetites, she found enough. 
Where least was found : with gleanings satisfied, 
Or crumbs, that from the hand of luxury fell ; 
Yet seldom these she ate ; but ate the bread 
Of her own industry, made sweet by toil : 
And walked in robes that her own hand had spun: 
And slept on down, her early rising bought. 
Frugal, and diligent in business, chaste 
And abstinent, she stored for helpless age ; 
And keeping in reserve her spring-day health, 
And dawning relishes of life, she drank 
Her evening cup with excellent appetite ; 
And saw her eldest sun dechne, as fedr 
As rose, her earliest morn, and pleased as well. 

Whether in crowds or solitudes — in streets 
Or shady groves dwelt Happiness, it seems 
In vain to ask ; her nature makes it vain : 
Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung 
Of brooks, and crystal founts, and weeping dews, 
And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales; 
And with the nymph made assignations there, 
And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed; 
And sages too, although less positive, 
Advised their sons to court her in the shade — 
Delirious babble all ! Was happiness, 
Was self-approving, God approving joy, 
In drops of dew, however pure ? in gales, 
However sweet? in wells, however clear ? 
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade ? 

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair: 
How fair at morn and even ! worthy the walk 
Of loftiest mind ; and gave, when all within 
Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss. 
But were the occasion, not the cause of joy: 
They waked the native'fountains of the soul, 
Which slept before ; and stirred the holy tides 
Of feehngup ; giving the heart to drink 
From its own treasures, draughts of perfect sweet. 

The Christian faith, which better knew the 
heart 
Of man, him thither sent for peace; and thus 
Declares : Who finds it, let him find it there : 
Who finds it not, for ever let him seek 
In vain : 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. 

True happiness had no localities ; 
No tones provincial ; no peculiar garb. 
Where duty went, she went ; with justice went ; 
And went with meekness, charity, and love. 
Where'er a tear was dried ; a wounded heart 
Bound up ; a bruised spirit with the dew 
Of sympathy annointed ; or a pang 
Of honest suffering soothed; or injury 
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
Where'er an evil passion was subdued. 
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 
A sin was heartily abjured, and left ; 
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish — 
There was a high and holy place, a spot 



THE COURSE OF TIME, 



707 



Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 

But these apart. In sacred memory lives 
The morn of Hfe ; first morn of endless days. 
Most joyful morn ! nor yet for nought the joy : 
A being of eternal date commenced ; 
A young immortal then was born ; and who 
Shall tell what strange variety of bliss 
Burst on the infant soul, when first it looked 
Abroad on God's creation fair, and saw 
The glorious earth, and glorious heaven, and face 
Of man sublime ? and saw all new, and felt 
All new ? when thought awoke ; thought never 

more 
To sleep? when first it saw, heard, reasoned, 

willed ; 
And triumphed in the warmth of conscious life ? — 
Nor happy only ; but the cause of joy. 
Which those who never tasted always mourned. 
What tongue ? — no tongue shall tell what bliss 

o'erflowed 
The mother's tender heart, while round her hung 
The offspring of her love, and lisped her name ; 
As living jewels dropt unstained from heaven, 
That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem, 
Than every ornament of costliest hue. 
And who hath not been ravished, as she passed 
With all her playful band of little ones. 
Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky, 
Walking in matron majesty and grace ? 
All who had hearts, here pleasure found : and oft 
Have I, when tired with heavy task, for tasks 
Were heavy in the world below, relaxed 
My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports; 
And led them by their little hands afield ; 
And watched them run and crop the tempting 

flower, — 
Which oft, unasked, they brought me and be- 
stow' d 
With smiling face, that waited for a look 
Of praise — and answered curious questions, put 
In much simplicity, but ill to solve ; 
And heard their observations strange and new, 
And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon 
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. 
And still I looked upon their loveliness ; 
And sought through nature for similitudes 
Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss. 
And fairest imagery round me thronged i — 
Dew-drops at day-spring on a seraph's locks ; 
Roses that bathe about the well of life ; 
Young loves, young hopes, dancing on Morning's 

cheek ; 
Gems leaping in the coronet of love : 
So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed 
As made entire of beams of angels' eyes. 
Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely, little things! 
Playing around the den of Sorrow, clad 
In smiles ; believing in their fairy hopes ; 
And thinking man and woman true ! all joy : 
Happy all day, and happy all the night. 

Hail, holy love ! thou word that sums all bhss ! 
Gives and receives all bliss ; fullest when most 
Thou givest. Spring-head of all felicity ! 
Deepest when most is drawn. Emblem of God ! 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink. 



Essence that binds the uncreated Three : 
Chain that unites creation to its Lord ; 
Centre to which all being gravitates. 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love ! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fulfilling every law : 
Entirely blest, because thou seekest no more ; 
Hopes not, nor fears ; but on the present liveSj 
And holds perfection smiling in thy arms. 
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! 
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still 
In heaven ; sweet chord, that harmonizes all 
The harps of Paradise ; the spring, the well, 
That fills the bowl, and banquet of the sky. 

But why should I to thee of love divine ? 
Who happy, and not eloquent of love ? 
Who holy, and as thou art, pure, and not 
A temple where her glory ever dwells, 
Where burns her fires, and beams her perfect 
eye? 

Kindred to this, part of this holy flame, 
Was youthful love — the sweetest boon of Earth, 
Hail love ! first love, thou word that sums all bliss J 
The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness j 
The silken down of happiness complete: 
Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy. 
She gathered, and selected with her hand, 
All finest relishes, all fairest sights; 
All rarest odours, all divinest sounds ; 
All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul; 
And brought the holy mixture home, and filled 
The heart with all superlatives of bhss. 
But who would that expound which words tran- 
scends, 
Must talk in vain. — Behold a meeting scene 
Of earthly love, and thence infer its worth. 

It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood ; 
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light. 
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand; 
And all the winds slept soundly : nature seemed 
In silent contemplation, to adore 
Its Maker : now and then the aged leaf 
Fell from its fellows, rustUng to the ground ; 
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. 
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, 
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenljr 

Thought 
Conversing with itself: Vesper looked forth 
From out her western hermitage, and smiled j 
And up the east, unclouded, rode the Moon 
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense, 
As if she saw some wonder walking there. 

Such was the night — so lovely, still, serene ^ 
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill 
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass, 
A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer : 
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard. 
This ancient thorn had been the meeting place 
Of love, before his country's voice had called 
The ardent youth, to fields of honour, far 
Beyond the wave. And hither now repaired. 
Nightly, the maid ; by God's all-seeing eye 
Seen only, while sought this boon alone: 
" Her lover's safety, and his quick return."^ 



708 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



In holy, humble attitude she kneeled : 

And to her bosom, fair as moon-beam, pressed 

One hand, the other Ufted up to heaven ; 

Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn, 

Aa violet meeli, excessive ardour streamed, 

Wafting away her earnest heart to God. 

Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as zephyr sighs 

On morning Uly's cheek ; though soft and low — 

Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. 

A tear-drop w^andered on her lovely face ; 

It was a tear of faith, and holy fear, 

Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time. 

On yonder willows by the stream of life. 

On her the moon looked steadfastly ; the stars. 

That circle nightly round the eternal throne, 

Glanced down, well pleased ; and everlasting Love 

Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere. 

O, had her lover seen her thus alone. 
Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him I 
Nor did he not ; for ofttimes Providence, 
With unexpected joy the fervent prayer 
Of faith surprised : — returned from long delay 
With glory crowned of righteous actions won, 
The sacred thorn to memory dear, first sought 
The youth, and found it at the happy hour. 
Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray. 
Wrapt in devotion, pleading with her God, 
She saw him not, heard not his foot approach. 
All holy images seemed too impure 
To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled. 
Beseeching for his ward, before the throne. 
Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the 

thought ; 
But sweeter still the kind remembrance came, 
That she was flesh, and blood, formed for himself. 
The plighted partner of his future life. 
And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered 
In woody chambers of the starry night, — 
Spirits of love about them ministered. 
And God, approving, blessed the holy joy. 

Nor unremembered is the hour when friends 
Met, friends but few on earth, and therefore dear: 
Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain : 
Yet always sought ; so native to the heart. 
So much desired, and coveted by all. 
Nor wonder thou — thou wonderest not, nor 

needst : 
Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair 
Was seen beneath the sun : but nought was seen 
More beautiful, or excellent, or fair 
Than face of faithful friend ; fairest when seen 
In darkest day. And many sounds were sweet. 
Most ravishing, and pleasant to the ear ; 
But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend ; 
Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. 
Some I remember, and will ne'er forget ; 
My early friends, friends of my evil day ; 
Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too; 
Friends given by God in mercy and in love ; 
My counsellors, my comforters, and guides ; 
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy ; 
Companions of my young desires ; in doubt 
My oracles ; my wings in high pursuit. 
O, I remember, and will ne'er forget. 
Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours ; 
Our burning words, that uttered all the soul; 



Our faces beaming with unearthly love ;— 
Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope 
Exulting, heart embracing heart entire. 
As birds of social feather, helping each 
His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies. 
And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and Earth, 
With all her tardy leaden-footed cares. 
And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven. 
These I remember, these selectest men ; 
And would their names record — but what avails 
My mention of their name : before the throne 
They stand, illustrious, 'mong the loudest harps, 
And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirs. 
For all are friends in heaven ; all faithful friends ; 
And many friendships in the days of Time 
Begun, are lasting here, and growing still; 
So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine. 

Nor is the hour of lonely walk forgot. 
In the wide desert, where the view was large. 
Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me 
The solitude of vast extent, untouched 
By hand of art ; where nature sowed, herself, 
And reaped her crops; — whose garments were 

the clouds ; 
Whose minstrels, brooks ; whose lamps, the moon 

and stars; 
Whose organ-quire, the voice of many waters ; 
Whose banquets, morning dews ; whose heroea, 

storms ; 
Whose warriors, mighty winds ; whose loverSf 

flowers ; 
Whose orators, the thunderbolts of God , 
Whose palaces, the everlasting hills; 
Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue: 
And from whose rocky turrets battled high, 
Prospect immense spread out on all sides round ; 
Lost now between the welkin and the main — 
Now walled with hills that slept above the storm. 

Most fit was such a place for musing men ; 
Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. 
It was indeed a wondrous sort of bhss 
The lonely bard enjoyed, when forth he walked 
Unpurposed ; stood, and knew not why ; sat 

down. 
And knew not where ; arose, and knew not when ; 
Had eyes, and saw not ; ears, and nothing heard ; 
And sought — sought neither heaven nor earth — 

sought nought. 
Nor meant to think ; but ran, meantime, through 

vast 
Of visionary things, fairer than aught 
That was ; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, 
Which men of common stature never saw, 
Greater than aught that largest worda could 

hold, 
Or give idea of, to those who read. 
He entered in to Nature's holy place. 
Her inner chamber, and beheld her face 
Unveiled ; and heard unutterable things, 
And incommunicable visions saw : — 
Things then unutterable, and visions then 
Of incommunicable glory bright; 
But by the lips of after ages formed 
To words, or by their pencil pictured forth: 
Who entering farther in beheld again. 
And heard unspeakable and marvellous things, 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



709 



Which other ages in their turn revealed ; 
And left to others, greater wonders still. 

The earth abounded much in silent wastes ; 
Nor yet is heaven without its solitudes, 
Else incomplete in bliss, whither who will 
May oft retire, and meditate alone, 
Of God, redemption, holiness, and love : 
Nor needs to fear a setting sun, or haste 
Him home from rainy tempest unforeseen ; 
Or, sighing, leave his thoughts for want of time. 

But whatsoever was both good and fair, 
And highest relish of enjoyment gave, 
In intellectual exercise was found ; 
When, gazing through the future, present, past, 
Inspired, thought hnked to thought, harmonious 

flowed 
In poetry — the loftiest mood of mind. 
Or when philosophy the reason led 
Deep through the outward circumstance of 

things. 
And saw the master wheels of Nature move ; 
And travelled far along the endless line 
Of certain, and of probable ; and made, 
At every step, some new discovery, 
That gave the soul sweet sense of larger room — 
High these pursuits — and sooner to be named 
Deserved ; at present only named : again 
To be resumed, and praised in longer verse. 

Abundant, and diversified above 
All number, were the sources of delight; 
As infinite as were the lips that drank : 
And to the pure, all innocent and pure ; 
The simplest still to wisest men the best. 
One made acquaintanceship with plants and 

flowers. 
And happy grew in telling all their names. 
One classed the quadrupeds ; a third the fowls; 
Another found in minerals his joy. 
And I have seen a man, a worthy man, 
In happy mood conversing with a fly ; 
And as he through his glass, made by himself. 
Beheld its wondrous eye, and plumage fine, 
From leaping scarce he kept for perfect joy. 

And from my path, I with my friend have 
turned, 
A man of excellent mind, and excellent heart. 
And climbed the neighbouring hill, with arduous 

step, 
Fetching from distant cairn, or from the earth, 
Digging, with labour sore, the ponderous stone, 
Which, having carried to the highest top, 
We downward rolled ; and as it strove at first 
With obstacles that seemed to match its force. 
With feeble crooked motion to and fro 
Wavering, he looked with interest most intense. 
And prayer almost ; and as it gathered strength, 
And straightened the current of its furious flow — 
Exulting in the swiftness of its course. 
And, rising now with rainbow-bound immense. 
Leaped down, careering o'er the subject plain. 
He clapped his hands in sign of boundless bliss ; 
And laughed and talked, well paid for all his toil : 
And when at night the story was rehearsed, 
Uncommon glory kindled in his eye. 



And there were too — harp ! lift thy voice on 
high, 
And run in rapid numbers o'er the face 
Of Nature's scenery — and there were day 
And night; and rising suns, and setting suns; 
And clouds, that seemed like chariots of saints. 
By fiery coursers drawn — as brightly hued, 
As if the glorious, bushy, golden locks 
Of thousand cherubim had been shorn off. 
And on the temples hung of morn and even. 
And there were moons, and stars, and darkness 

streaked 
With light ; and voice of tempest heard secure. 
And there were seasons coming evermore, 
And going still, all fair, and always new, 
With bloom, and fruit, and fields of hoary grain. 
And there wer© hills of flock, and groves of song; 
And flowery streams, and garden walks em- 
bowered , 
Where side by side the rose and lily bloomed. 
And sacred founts, wild harps, and moonlight 

glens ; 
And forests vast, fair lawns, and lonely oaks ; 
And little willows sipping at the brook ; 
Old wizard haunts, and dancing seats of mirth ; 
Gay festive bowers, and palaces in dust ; 
Dark owlet nooks, and caves, and battled rocks j 
And winding valleys, i-nnfed with pendant shade,. 
And tall, and perilous cliffs, that overlooked 
The breath of ocean, sleeping on his waves. 
Sounds, sights, smells, tastes ; the heaven and 

earth, profuse 
In endless sweets, above all praise of song: 
For not to use alone did Providence 
Abound, but large example gave to man 
Of grace, and ornament, and splendour rich; 
Suited abundantly to every taste. 
In bird, beast, fish, winged and creeping thing; 
In herb and flower ; and in the restless change. 
Which on the many-coloured seasons made 
The annual circuit of the fruitful earth. 

Nor do I aught of earthly sort remember, — 
If partial feeling to my native place 
Lead not my lyre astray, — of fairer view, 
And comelier walk, than the blue mountain-paths. 
And snowy cliffs of Albion renowned; 
Albion, an isle long blest with gracious laws. 
And gracious kings, and favoured much of 

Heaven ; 
Though yielding oft penurious gratitude. 
Nor do I of that isle remember aught 
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful. 
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills. 
Which first I from my father's house beheld. 
At dawn of life : beloved in memory still ; 
And standard still of rural imagery: 
What most resembles them, the fairest seems, 
And stirs the eldest sentiments of bliss; 
And pictured on the tablet of my heart, 
Their distant shapes eternally remain, 
And in my dreams their cloudy tops arise. 
Much of my native scenery appears. 
And presses forward to be in my song ; 
But must not now ; for much behind awaits 
Of higher note. Four trees I pass iiot by. 
Which o'er our house their evening shadow 
threw, — 



no 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Three ash, and one of elm : tall trees they were, 
And old : and had been old a century 
Before my day : none living could say aught 
About their youth ; but they were goodly trees : 
And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought 
Beneath their summer shade, or in the night 
Of winter, heard the spirits of the wind 
Growling among their boughs, — how they had 

grown 
So high, in such a rough tempestuous place : 
And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast, 
Fell down, I mourned, as if a friend had fallen. 

These I distinctly hold in memory stili, 
And all the desert scenery around. 
Nor strange, that recollection there should dwell, 
Where first I heard of God's redeeming love ■, : 
First felt and reasoned, loved and was beloved. 
And first awoke the harp to holy song. 
To hoar and green there was enough of joy. 
Hopes, friendships, charities, and warm pursuit. 
Gave comfortable flow to youthful blood. 
And there were old remembrances of days. 
When on the glittering dews of orient life. 
Shone sunshine hopes — unfailed, unperjured then : 
And there were childish sports, and school-boy 

feats. 
And school-boy spots, and earnest vows of love, 
Uttered, when passion's boisterous tide ran high ; 
Sincerely uttered, though but seldom kept: 
And there were angel looks ; and sacred hours 
Of rapture ; hours that in a moment passed, 
And yet were wished to last for evermore : 
And venturous exploits ; and hardy deeds ; 
And bargains shrewd, achieved in manhood's 

prime : 
And thousand recollections, gay and sweet. 

Which, as the old and venerable man 
Approached the grave, around him, smiling, 

flocked, 
And breathed new ardour through his ebbing 
veins ; 

And touched his lips with endless eloquence ; 

And cheered, and much refreshed his withered 

heart. 
Indeed, each thing remembered, all but guilt, 

Was pleasant, and a constant source of joy. 

Nor lived the old on memory alone. 

He in his children lived a second fife ; 

With them again took root; sprang with their 
hopes ; 

Entered into their schemes ; partook their fears ; 

Laughed in their mirth ; and in their gain grew 
rich. 

And sometimes on the eldest cheek was seen 

A smile as hearty as on face of youth, 

That saw in prospect sunny hopes invite, 

Hope's pleasures— sung to harp of sweetest note ; 

Harp, heard with rapture on Britannia's hills ; 

With rapture heard by me, in morn of life. 

Nor small the joy of rest to mortal men ; 
Hest after labour; sleep approaching soft. 
And wrapping all the weary faculties 
In sweet repose. Then Fancy, unrestrained 
By sense or judgment, strange confusion made, 
Of future, present, past ; combining things 
Unseemly, things unsociable in Nature, 



In most absurd communion, laughable, 
Though sometimes vexing sore the slumbering 

soul. 
Sporting at will, she, through her airy halls, 
With moonbeams paved, and canopied with stars, 
And tapestried with marvellous imagery, 
And shapes of glory, infinitely fair, 
Moving and mixing in most wondrous dance — 
Fantastically walked ; but pleased so well, 
That ill she liked the judgment's voice severe, 
Which called her home when noisy morn awoke. 
And oft she sprang beyond the bounds of Time, 
On her swift pinion lifting up the souls 
Of righteous men, on high, to God, and heaven, 
Where they beheld unutterable things ; 
And heard the glorious music of the blest, 
Circhng the throne of the Eternal Three ; 
And with the spirits unincarnate, took 
Celestial pastime, on the hills of God ; 
Forgetful of the gloomy pass between. 

Some dreams were useless — moved by turbid 
course 
Of animal disorder; not so all : 
Deep moral lessons some impressed, that nought 
Could afterwards deface. And oft in dreams, 
The master passion of the soul displayed 
His huge deformity, concealed by day — 
Warning the sleeper to beware, awake. 
And oft in dreams, the reprobate and vile. 
Unpardonable sinner — as he seemed 
Toppling upon the perilous edge of Hell — 
In dreadful apparition, saw before 
His vision pass, the shadows of the damned ;_ 
And saw the glare of hollow, cursed eyes, 
Spring from the skirts of the infernal night ; 
And saw the souls of wicked men, new dead, 
By devils hearsed into the fiery gulf; 
And heard the burning of the endless flames ; 
And heard the weltering of the waves of wrath. 
And sometimes, too, before his fancy passed 
The Worm that never dies, writhing its folds 
In hideous sort, and with eternal Death 
Held horrid colloquy ; giving the wretch 
Unwelcome earnest of the woe to come. 
But these we leave, as unbefitting song, 
That promised happy narrative of joy. 

But what of all the joys of earth was most 
Of native growth, most proper to the soil — 
' Not elsewhere known, in worlds that never fell- 
Was joy that sprung from disappointed woe. 
The joy in grief; the pleasure after pain ; 
Fears turned to hopes ; meetings expected not; 
Deliverances from dangerous attitudes ; 
Better for worse ; and best sometimes for worst ; 
And all the seeming ill, ending in good — 
A sort of happiness composed, which none 
Has-had experience of, but mortal man. 
Yet not to be despised. Look back, and one 
Behold, who would not give her tear for all 
The smiles that dance about the cheek of Mirth. 

Among the tombs she walks at noon of night. 
In miserable garb of widowhood. 
Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad, 
Bending her wasted body o'er the grave 
Of him who was the husband of her youth. 



THE COURSE 01'' TIME. 



711 



The moonbeams trembling through these ancient 

yews, 
That stand Uke ranks of mourners round the bed 
Of death, fall dismally upon her face ; 
Her little, hollow, withered face, almost 
Invisible — so worn away with woe : 
The tread of hasty foot, passing so late. 
Disturbs her not ; nor yet the roar of mirth, 
From neighbouring revelry ascending loud. 
She hears, sees nought ; fears nought ; one 

thought alone 
Fills all her heart and soul ; half hoping, half 
Remembering, sad, unutterable thought ! 
Uttered by silence, and by tears alone. 
Sweet tears ! the awful language, eloquent 
Of infinite affection ; far too big 
For words. She sheds not many now : that grass. 
Which springs so rankly o'er the dead, has drunk 
Already many showers of grief: a drop 
Or two are all that now remain behind. 
And from her eye, that darts strange fiery beams. 
At dreary intervals, drip down her cheek, 
Falling most mournfully from bone to bone. 
But yet she wants not tears : that babe that hangs 
Upon her breast, that babe that never saw 
Its father — he was dead before its birth — 
Helps her to weep, weeping before its time ; 
Taught sorrow by the mother's melting voice. 
Repeating oft the father's sacred name. 
Be not surprised at this expense of woe ! 
The man she mourns was all she called her own ; 
The music of her ear, light of her eye; 
Desire of all her heart ; her hope, her fear : 
The element in which her passions lived — 
Dead now, or dying all. Nor long shall she 
Visit that place of skulls : night after night. 
She wears herself away : the moonbeam now 
That falls upon her unsubstantial frame, 
Scarce finds obstruction ; and upon her bones, 
Barren as leafless boughs in winter-time, 
Her infant fastens his little hands, as oft, 
Forgetful, she leaves him awhile unheld. -♦ 
But look, she passes not away in gloom : 
A fight from far illumes her face ; a light 
That comes beyond the moon, beyond the sun — 
The light of truth divine ; the glorious hope 
Of resurrection at the promised morn. 
And meetings then which ne'er shall part again. 

Indulge another note of kindred tone. 
Where grief was mixed with melancholy joy. 

Our sighs were numerous, and profuse our tears ; 
For she was lost, was lovely, and we loved 
Her much : fresh in our memory, as fresh 
As yesterday, is yet the day she died. 
It was an April day ; and blithely all 
The youth of nature leaped beneath the sun, 
And promised glorious manhood ; and our hearts 
Were glad, and round them danced the fightsome 

blood, 
In healthy merriment — when tidings came, 
A child was born ; and tidings came again. 
That she who gave it birth was sick to death. 
So swift trode sorrow on the heels of joy ! 
We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees 
In fervent supplication to the Throne 
Of Mercy, and perfumed our prayers with sighs 



Sincere, and peniienlial tears, and looks 

Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 

An angel on the earth ; a spirit ripe 

For heaven ; and Mercy, in her love, refused: 

Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least ! 

Most gracious when she seemed the most 10 

frown ! 
The room I well remember ; and the bed 
On which she lay ; and all the faces too, 
That crowded dark and mournfully around. 
Her father there, and mother bending stood, 
And down their aged cheeks fell many drops 
Of bitterness ; her husband, too, was there, 
And brothers ; and they wept — her sisters, too, 
Did weep and sorrow comfortless ; and I, 
Too, wept, though not to weeping given : and all 
Within the house was dolorous and sad ; 
This I remember well ; but better still, 
I do remember, and will ne'er forget. 
The dying eye— that eye alone was bright. 
And brighter grew, as nearer death approached : 
As I have seen the gentle fittle flower 
Look fairest in the silver beam, which fell 
Reflected from the thunder cloud that soon 
Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far 
And wide its loveUness. She made a sign 
To bring her babe — 'twas brought, and by her 

placed. 
She looked upon its face, that neither smiled 
Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon't, and laid 
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought 
For it, with look that seemed to penetrate 
The heavens — unutterable blessings — such 
As God to dying parents only granted, 
For infants left behind them in the world. 
" God keep my child," we heard her say, and 

heard 
No more : the Angel of the Covenant 
Was come, and, faithful to his promise, stood 
Prepared to walk with her through death's dark 

vale. 
And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, 
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
With many tears, and closed without a cloud. 
They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured among the tempests of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven. 

Loves, friendships, hopes, and dear remem- 
brances ; 
The kind embracings of the heart — and hours 
Of happy thought — and smiles coming to tears— 
And glories of the heaven and starry cope 
Above, and glories of the earth beneath : 
These were the rays that wandered through the 

gloom 
Of mortal life — wells of the wilderness : 
Redeeming features in the face of Time ; 
Sweet drops, that made the mixed cup of Earth 
A palatable draught — too bitter else. 

About the joys and pleasures of the world. 
This question was not seldom in debate — 
Whether the righteous man, or sinner, had 
The greatest share, and relished them the most? 
Truth gives the answer thus, gives it distinct, 
Nor needs to reason long : The righteous man. 



713 



ROBERT POLLOK 



For what was he denied of earthly growth, 
Worthy the name of good ? Truth answers — 

Nought. 
Had he not appetites, and sense, and will? 
Might he not eat, if Providence allowed, 
The finest of the wheat ? Might he not drink 
The choicest wine ? True, he was temperate ; 
But then was temperance a foe to peace ? 
Might he not rise, and clothe himself in gold? 
Ascend, and stand in palaces of kings ? 
True, he was honest still, and charitable : 
Were then these virtues foes to human peace ? 
Might he not do exploits and gain a name ? 
Most true, he trod not down a fellow's right, 
Nor wal'ked up to a throne on skulls of men ; 
Were justice, then, and mercy, foes to peace? 
Had he not friendships, loves, and smiles, and 

hopes ? 
Sat not around his table sons and daughters ? 
Was not his ear with music pleased ? his eye 
With light ? his nostrils with perfumes ? his lips 
With pleasant relishes? grew not his herds ? 
Fell not the rain upon his meadows ? reaped 
He not his harvests ? and did not his heart 
Revel at will through all the charities 
And sympathies of nature, unconfined ? 
And were not these all sweetened, and sanctified 
By dews of holiness shed from above ? 
Might he not walk through Fancy's airy halls ? 
Might he not History's ample, page survey ? 
Might he not, finally, explore the depths 
Of mentalj moral, natural, divine? 
But why enumerate thus ? One word enough. 
There was no joy in all created things, 
No drop of sweet, that turned not in the end 
To sour, of which the righteous man did not 
Partake — partake, invited by the voice 
Of God, his Father's voice — who gave him all 
His heart's desire. And o'er the sinner still, 
The Christian had this one advantage more, 
That when his earthly pleasures failed, and fail 
They always did to every soul of man, 
He sent his hopes on high, looked up, and reached 
His sickle forth, and reaped the fields of heaven, 
And plucked the clusters from the vines of God. 

Nor was the general aspect of the v/orld 
Always a moral waste : a time there came. 
Though few believed it e'er should come — a time 
Typed by the Sabbath day recurring once 
In seven ; and by the year of rest indulged 
Septennial to the lands on Jordan's banks : 
A time foretold by Judah's bards in words 
Of fire : a time, seventh part of time, and set 
Before the eighth and last — the Sabbath day 
Of all the earth — when all had rest and peace. 
Before its coming many to and fro 
Ran ; ran from various cause ; by many sent 
From various cause ; upright, and crooked both. 
Some sent, and ran for love of souls sincere ; 
And more at instance of a holy name. 
With godly zeal much vanity was mixed ; 
And circumstance of gaudy civil pomp; 
And speeches buying praise for praise ; and lists, 
And endless scrolls, surcharged with modest 

names 
That sought the pubhc eye ; and stories, told 
In quackish phrase, that hurt their credit, even 



When true — combined with wise and iirudent 

means, 
Much wheat, much chaff, much gold, and much 

alloy : 
But God wrought with the whole — wrought most 

with what 
To man seemed weakest means — and brought 

result 
Of good from good and evil both; and breathed 
Into the withered nations breath and life : 
The breath and life of liberty and truth. 
By means of knowledge breathed into the soul. 

Then was the evil day of tyranny ! 
Of kingly and of priestly tyranny, 
That bruised the nations long. As yet, no state 
Beneath the heavens had tasted freedom's wine ; 
Though loud of freedom was the talk of all. 
Some groaned more deeply, being heavier tasked ; 
Some wrought with straw, and some without ; but 

all 
Were slaves, or meant to be ; for rulers still 
Had been of equal mind — excepting few — 
Cruel, rapacious, tyrannous, and vile ; 
And had with equal shoulder propped the Beast. 
As yet, the Church, the holy spouse of God, 
In members few, had wandered in her weeds 
Of mourning, persecuted, scorned, reproached, 
And buffeted, and killed — in members few, 
Though seeming many whiles ; then fewest oft. 
When seeming most. She still had hung hei 

harp 
Upon the willow-tree, and sighed, and wept 
From age to age. Satan began the war ; 
And all his angels, and ail wicked men, 
Against her fought by wile, or fierce attack, 
Six thousand years ; but fought in vain. She 

stood. 
Troubled on every side, but not distressed : 
Weeping, but yet despairing not! cast down, 
But i^ot destroyed : for she upon the palms 
Of God was graven, and precious in his sight, 
As apple of his eye ; and like the bush 
On Midia's mountain seen, burned unconsumed: 
But to the wilderness retiring, dwelt, 
Debased in sackcloth, and forlorn in tears. 

As yet, had sung the scarlet-coloured whore, 
Who on the breast of civil power reposed 
Her harlot head — the Church a harlot then, 
When first she wedded civil power — and drunk 
The blood of martyred saints ; whose priests 

were lords ; 
Whose coffers held the gold of every land ; 
Who held a cup of all pollutions full ; 
Who with a double horn the people pushed; 
And raised her forehead, full of blasphemy, 
Above the holy God, usurping oft 
Jehovah's incommunicable names. 
The nations had been dark ; the Jews had pined, 
Scattered without a name, beneath the curse ; 
War had abounded ; Satan raged unchained ; 
And earth had still been black with moral gloom. 
But now the cry of men oppressed, went up 
Before the Lord, and to remembrance came 
The tears of all his saints — their tears, and 

groans. 
Wise men had read the number of the name ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



713 



The prophet-years had rolled; the time, and 

times, 
And half a time, were now fulfilled complete ; 
The seven fierce vials of the wrath of God, 
Poured by seven angels strong, were shed abroad 
Upon the earth, and emptied to the dregs; 
The prophecy for confirmation stood ; 
And all was ready for the sword of God. 

The righteous saw, and fled without delay 
Into the chambers of Omnipotence : 
The wicked mocked, and sought for erring 

cause. 
To satisfy the dismal state of things — 
The public credit gone ; the fear in time 
Of peace ; the starving want in time of wealth ; 
The insurrection muttering in the streets; 
And pallid consternation spreading wide ; 
And leagues, though holy termed, first ratified 
In hell, on purpose made to under-prop 
Iniquity, and crush the sacred truth. 



Meantime a mighty angel stood in heaven, 
And cried aloud — Associate now yourselves, 
Ye princes! potentates! and men of war! 
And mitred heads ! associate now yourselves. 
And be dispersed : embattle, and be broken: 
Gird on your armour, and be dashed to dust : 
Take counsel, and it shall be brought to nought: 
Speak, and ir shall not stand. — And suddenly 
The armies of the saints, imbannered, stood 
On Zion hill ; and with them angels stood, 
In squadron bright, and chariots of fire; 
And with them stood the Lord, clad like a man 
Of war, and, to the sound of thunder, led 
The battle on. Earth shook ; the kingdoms 

shook ; 
The Beast, the lying Seer, dominions, fell ; 
Thrones, tyrants fell, confounded in the dust. 
Scattered and driven before the breath of God, 
As chaff of summer threshing-floor before 
The wind. Three days the battle wasting slew. 
The sword was full, the arrow drunk with blood ; 
And to the supper of Almighty God, 
Spread in Hamonah's vale, the fowls of heaven, 
And every beast, invited, came — and fed 
On captains' flesh, and drank the blood of kings. 

And lo ! another angel stood in heaven. 
Crying aloud with mighty voice : Fallen, fallen, 
Is Babylon the Great — to rise no more ! 
Rejoice, ye prophets ! over her rejoice, 
Apostles ! holy men, all saints, rejoice ! 
And glory give to God, and to the Lamb. — 
And all the armies of disburdened earth, 
As voice of many waters, and as voice 
Of thunderings, and voice of multitudes, 
Answered, Amen. And every hill and rock. 
And sea, and every beast, answered. Amen. 
Europa answered, and the farthest bounds 
Of woody Chili, Asia's fertile coasts, 
And Afric's burning wastes, answered. Amen. 
And Heaven, rejoicing, answered back. Amen. 

Not so the wicked : they afar were heard 
Lamenting ; kings who drank her cup of whore- 
doms, 
Captains, and admirals, and mighty men, 
90 



Who lived deliciously, and merchants, rich 
With merchandise of gold, and wine, and oil; 
And those who traded in the souls of men — 
Known by their gaudy robes of priestly pomp ; 
All these afar oflT stood,, crying, Alas ! 
Alas ! and wept, and gnashed their teeth, and 

groaned : 
And with the owl, that on her ruins sat, 
Made dolorous concert in the ear of Night. 
And over her again the heavens rejoiced, 
And earth returned again the loud response. 



Thrice happy days ! thrice blest the man who 

saw 
Their dawn ! the Church and State, that long had 

held 
Unholy intercourse, were now divorced; 
Prinzes were righteous men ; judges upright : 
And t^rst in general now — for in the worst 
Of times there were some honest seers — the priest 
Sought other than the fleece among his flocks — 
Best paid when God was honoured most. And 

like 
A cedar, nourished well, Jerusalem grew, 
And towered on high, and spread, and flourished 

fair ; 
And underneath her boughs the nations lodged; 
All nations lodged, and sung the song of peace. 
From the four winds, the Jews, eased of the curse, 
Returned, and dwelt with God in Jacob's land, 
And drank of Sharon and of Carmel's vine. 
Satan was bound ; though bound, not banished 

quite ; 
But lurked about the timorous skirts of things, 
111 lodged, and thinking whiles to leave the earth ; 
And with the wicked, for some wicked were. 
Held midnight meetings, as the saints were wont ; 
Fearful of day, who once was as the sun, 
And worshipped more. The bad, but few, became 
A taunt, and hissing now, as heretofore 
The good; and, blushing, hasted out of sight. 
Disease was none : the voice of war, forgot: 
The sword, a share : apruning-hook, the spear. 
Men grew and multiplied upon the earth. 
And filled the city, and the waste : and Death - 
Stood wailing for the lapse of lardy age. 
That mocked him long. Men grew and multiplied, 
But lacked not bread ; for God his promise 

brought 
To mind, and blessed the land with plenteous rain ; 
And made it blest, for dews, and precious things 
Of heaven, and blessings of the deep beneath; 
And blessings of the sun, and moon ; and fruits 
Of day and night ; and blessings of the vale ; 
And precious things of the eternal hills ; 
And all the fulness of perpetual spring. 

The prison-house, where chained felons pined. 
Threw open his ponderous doors ; let in the light 
Of heaven ; and grew into a church, where God 
Was worshipped : none were ignorant ; selfish 

none : 
Love took the place of law ; where'er you met 
A man, you met a friend, sincere and true. 
Kind looks foretold as kind a heart within ; 
Words as they sounded, meant ; and promises 
Were made to be performed. Thrice happy days ! 
Philosophy was sanctified, and saw 



714 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Perfection, which she thought a fable long. 
Revenge his dagger dropped, and kissed the hand 
Of Mercy : Anger cleared his cloudy brow. 
And sat with Peace : Envy grew red, and smiled 
On Worth : Pride stooped, and kissed HumiUty : 
Lust washed his miry hands, and, wedded, leaned 
On chaste Desire : and Falsehood laid aside 
His many-folded cloak, and bowed to Truth : 
And Treachery up from his mining came, 
And walked above the ground with righteous 

Faith : 
And Covetousness unclenched his sinewy hand, 
And opened his door to Charity, the fair : 
Hatred was lost in Love : and Vanity, 
With a good conscience pleased, her feathers 

cropped : 
Sloth in the morning rose with Industry : 
To Wisdom, Folly turned: and Fashion turned 
Deception off, in act as good as word. 
The hand that held a whip was lifted up 
To bless ; slave was a word in ancient books 
Met only ; every man was free : and all 
Feared God, and served him day and night in love. 

How fair the daughter of Jerusalem then! 
How gloriously from Zion Hill she looked ! 
Clothed with the sun; and in her train the moon ; 
And on her head a coronet of stars ; 
And girding round her waist, with heavenly grace. 
The bow of Mercy bright ; and in her hand, 
Immanuel's cross — her sceptre, and her hope. 

Desire of every land ! The nations came. 
And worshipped at her feet ; all nations came. 
Flocking Hke doves. Columba's painted tribes, 
That from Magellan to the Frozen Bay, 
Beneath the Arctic dwelt, and drank the tides 
Of Amazona, prince of earthly streams ; 
Or slept at noon beneath the giant shade 
Of Andes' mount; or roving northward, heard 
Niagara sing, from Erie's billow down. 
To Frontenac, and hunted thence the fur 
To Labrador. And Afric's dusky swarms, 
That from Morocco to Angola dwelt, 
And drank the Niger from his native v/ells, 
Or roused the lion in Numidia's groves ; 
The tribes that sat among the fabled cliffs 
Of Atlas, lojjking to Atlanta's wave. 
With joy and melody arose and came ; 
Zara awoke, and came; and Egypt came, 
Casting her idol gods into the Nile. 
Black Ethiopia, that shadowless, 
Beneath the Torrid burned, arose and came : 
Dauma and Medra, and the pirate tribes 
Of Algeri, with incense came, and pure 
Offerings, annoying now the seas no more. 
The silken tribes of Asia flocking came, 
Innumerous; Ishmael's wandering race, that 

rode 
On camels o'er the spicy tract that lay 
From Persia, to the Red Sea coast : the king 
Of broad Cathay, with numbers infinite. 
Of many lettered casts ; and all the tribes 
That dwelt from Tigris to the Ganges' wave ; 
And worshipped fire, or Brahma, fabled god ! 
Cashmeres, Circassians, Banyans, tender race ! 



That swept the insect from their path, and lived 
On herbs and fruits; and those who peaceful 

dwelt 
Along the shady avenue that stretched 
From Agra to Lahore -. and all the hosts 
That owned the Crescent late, deluded long. 
The Tartar hordes that roamed from Oby's 

bank, 
Ungoverned, southward to the wonderous Wall. 
The tribes of Europe came ; the Greek, redeemed 
From Turkish thrall ; the Spaniard came, and 

Gaul, 
And Britain with her ships ; and on his sledge. 
The Laplander, that nightly watched the bear 
Circling the Pole ; and those who saw the flames 
Of Hecla burn the drifted snow: the Russ, 
Long whiskered, and equestrian Pole ; and those 
Who drank the Rhine, or lost the evening sun 
Behind the Alpine towers; and she that sat 
By Arno, classic stream ; Venice ; and Rome, 
Head quarters long of sin ! first guileless now, 
And meaning as she seemed, stretched forth her 

hands. 
And all the isles of ocean rose and came, 
j Whether they heard the roll of banished tides, 
1 Antipodes to Albion's wave ; or watched 
I The moon ascending chalky Teneriffe, 
I And with Atlanta holding nightly love. 
The Sun, the Moon, the Constellations came: 
Thrice twelve and ten that watched the Antarctic 

sleep ; 
Twice six that near the Ecliptic dwelt ; thrice 

twelve 
And one, that with the Streamers danced, and' 

saw 
The Hyperborean ice, guarding the Pole. 
The East, the West, the South, and snowy North, 
Rejoicing met, and worshipped reverently 
Before the Lord, in Zion's holy hill ; 
And all the places round about were blest. 
The animals, as once in Eden, lived 
In peace : the wolf dwelt with the lamb ; the bear 
And leopard with the ox ; with looks of love, 
The tiger, and the scaly crocodile, 
Togther met, at Gambia's palmy wave : 
Perched on the eagle's wing, the bird of song, 
Singing, arose and visited the sun ; 
And with the falcon sat the gentle lark. 
The little child leaped from his mother's arms, 
And stroked the crested snake, and rolled unhurt 
Among his speckled waves — and wished hii» 

home : 
And sauntering school-boys, slow returning 

played 
At eve about the lion's den, and wove 
Into his shaggy mane, fantastic flowers : 
To meet the husbandman, early abroad, 
Hasted the deer, and waved its woody head : 
And round its dewy steps, the hare, unscared, 
Sported, and toyed familiar with his dog : 
The flocks and herds, o'er hill and valley spread, 
Exulting, cropped the ever-budding herb : 
The desert blossomed, and the barren sung : 
Justice and Mercy, Hohness and Love, 
Among the people walked : Messiah reigned: 
And- Earth kept Jubilee a thousand years 



J 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



715 



BOOK VI. 



ANALYSIS. 

The Bard commences to sing of the final destruc- 
tion of the earth. But checking himself, he 
sings of the time which followed the millennial 
rest. 

Impiety and ungodliness abounded. Active am- 
bition, and indolent sloth regained a general 
ascendency, and sin in every form, as had ex- 
isted before the millennium, was renewed, and 
new forms were invented. The universal con- 
tempt of God was wholly wilful, for the age 
was polished and enlightened. 

Wondrous sights and strange forbodings gave 
presage of the earth's approaching dissolution. 
" Perplexed, but not reformed," the race of 
men inquired the explanation of the prodigies ; 
all warnings were soon forgotten, men con- 
tinued following their guilty pleasures, and the 
earth filled up the measure of her wickedness. 

A pause in the narrative ;, as the numerous hosts 
of heaven look towards the unveiled Godhead, 
and join in the evening hymn of praise. The 
prophet Isaiah takes the harp, and before the 
throne, sings the holy song. At its close, thou- 
sands of thousands, infinite, devoutly respond. 
Amen. 



Resume thy tone of woe, immortal harp ! 
The song of mirth is past ; the Jubilee 
Is ended ; and the sun begins to fade. 
Soon past : for Happiness counts not the hours ; 
To her a thousand years seem as a day : 
A day a thousand years to misery. 
Satan is loose, and Violence is heard. 
And Riot in the street, and Revelry 
Intoxicate, and Murder and Revenge. 
Put on your armour now, ye righteous I put 
The helmet of salvation on, and gird 
Your loins about with truth ; add righteousness, 
And add the shield of faith ; and take the sword 
Of God : awalie ! and watch : the day is near : 
Great day of God Almighty, and the Lamb. 
The harvest of the earth is fully ripe : 
Vengeance begins to tread the great wine-press 
Of fierceness and of wrath ; and Mercy pleads, 
Mercy that pleaded long — she pleads no more. 
Whence comes that darkness? whence those 

yells of woe ? 
What thunderings are these, that shake the world? 
Why fall the lamps from heaven as blasted figs ? 
Why tremble righteous men ? why angels pale ? 
Why is all fear ? what has become of hope ? 
God comes ! God in his car of vengeance comes ! 
Hark ! louder on the blast, come hollow shrieks 
Of dissolution ; in the fitful scowl 
Of night, near and more near, angels of death 
Incessant flap their deadly wings, and roar 
Through all the fevered air ; the mountains rock ; 
The moon is sick ; and all the stars of heaven 
Burn feebly ; oft and sudden gleams the fire, " 
Revealing awfully the brow of wrath. 
The Thunder, long and loud, utters his voice, 



Responsive to the ocean's troubled growl. 
Night comes, last night ; the long dark, dark, 

dark night, 
That has no morn beyond it, and no star. 
No eye of man hath seen a night Hke this ! 
Heaven's trampled justice girds itself for fight : 
Earth to thy knees, and cry for mercy ! cry 
With earnest heart ; for thou art growing old 
And hoary, unrepented, unforgiven : 
And all thy glory mourns: thy vintage mourns; 
Bashan and Carmel ! mourn and weep : and 

mourn 
Thou Lebanon ! with all thy cedars mourn. 
Sun ! glorying in thy strength from age to age, 
So long observant of thy hour, put on 
Thy weeds of woe, and tell the moon to weep ; 
Utter thy grief at mid-day, morn, and even; 
Tell all the nations, tell the clouds that sit 
About the portals of the east and west. 
And wanton with thy golden locks, to wait 
Thee not to-morrow; for no morrow comes, 
Tell men and women, tell the new-born child, 
And every eye that sees, to come, and see 
Thee set behind Eternity ; for thou 
Shalt go to bed to-night, and ne'er awake. 
Stars ! walking on the pavement of the sky, 
Out sentinels of heaven ! watching the earth. 
Cease dancing now : your lamps are growing 

dim ; . 
Your graves are dug among the dismal clouds ; 
And angels are assembling round your bier. 
Orion ! mourn : and Mazzaroth : and thou, 
Arcturus ! mourn, with all thy northern sons. 
Daughters of Pleiades ! that nightly shed 
Sweet influence :''and thou, fairest of the stars ! 
Eye of the morning, weep — and weep at eve ; 
Weep setting, now to rise no more, " and flame. 
On forehead of the dawn" — as sung the bard : 
Great bard ! who used on Earth a seraph's lyre, 
Whose numbers wandered through eternity, 
And gave sweet foretaste of the heavenly harps. 
Minstrel of sorrow ! native of the dark! 
Shrub-loving Philomel! that wooed the dews 
At midnight from their starry beds, and, charmed, 
Held them around thy song till dawn awoke — 
Sad bird ! pour tlirough the gloom thy weeping 

song: 
Pour all thy dying melody of grief, 
And with the turtle spread the wave of woe- 
Spare not thy reed, for thou shall sing no more. 

Ye holy bards ! if yet a holy bard 

Remain, what chord shall serve you now? what 
harp ! 

What harp shall sing the dying sun asleep, 

And mourn behind the funeral of the moon ! • 

What harp of boundless, deep, exhaustless woe. 

Shall utter forth the groanings of the damned ; 

And sing the obsequies of wicked souls ; 

And wail their plunge in the eternal fire ! 

Hold, hold your hands ; hold angels ; God la- 
ments. 

And draws a cloud of mourning round his tnrone ; 

The Organ of eternity is mute ; 

And there is silence in the heaven of heavens ! 

Daughters of beauty ! choice of beings made ! 

Much praised, much blamed, much loved; but 
fairer far 



716 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Than aught beheld ; ihari aught imagined else 
Fairest ; and dearer than all else most dear ; 
Light of the darksome wilderness ! to Time 
As stars to night — whose eyes were spells tnat 

held 
The passenger forgetful of his way ; 
Whose steps were majesty ; whose words were 

song ; 
Whose smiles were hope ; whose actions, perfect 

grace ; 
Whose love the solace, glory, and delight 
Of man, his boast, his riches, his renown : 
When found, sufficient bliss ; when lost, despair : 
Stars of creation ! images of love ! 
Break up the fountains of your tears ; your tears 
More eloquent than learned tongue, or lyre 
Of purest note ; your sunny raiment stain; 
Put dust upon your heads ; lament and weep ; 
And utter all your minstrelsy of woe. 

Go to, ye wicked, weep and howl ; for all 
That God hath written against you is at hand. 
The cry of violence hath reached his ear; 
Hell is prepared ; and Justice whets his sword. 
Weep all of every name : begin the woe. 
Ye woods, and tell it to the doleful winds; 
And doleful winds, wail to the howling hills ; 
And howling hills, mourn to the dismal vales ; 
And dismal vales, sigh to the sorrowing brooks ; 
And sorrowing brooks, weep to the weeping 

stream ; 
And weeping stream, awake the groaning deep; 
And let the instrument take up the song. 
Responsive to the voice — harmonious woe ! 
Ye heavens, great archway of the universe ! 
Put sackcloth on ; and Ocean clothe thyself 
In garb of widowhood, and gather all 
Thy waves into a groan, and utter it — 
Long, loud,, deep, piercing, dolorous, immense : 
The occasion asks it ; Nature dies ; and God, 
And angels , come to lay her in the grave ! 

But we have overleaped our theme : behind, 
A little season waits a verse or two : 
The years that followed the millennial rest. 
Bad years they were ; and first, as signal sure, 
That at the core religion was diseased, 
The sons of Levi strove again for place, 
And eminence, and names of swelling pomp, 
Setting their feet upon the people's neck, 
And slumbering in the lap of civil power ; 
Of civil power again tyrannical. 
And second sign, sure sign, whenever seen, 
That holiness was dying in a land, 
The Sabbath was profaned, and set at nought : 
The honest seer, who spoke the truth of God 
Plainly, was left with empty walls ; and round 
The frothy orator, who busked his tales 
In quackish pomp of noisy words, the ear 
Tickling, but leaving still the heart unprobed, 
The judgment uninformed, — numbers immense 
Flocked, gaping wide, with passions high in- 
flamed ; 
And on the way returning, heated, home. 
Of eloquence, and not of truth, conversed — 
Mean eloquence that wanted sacred truth. 

Two principles froili the beginning strove 



In human nature, still dividing man — 
Sloth and activity, the lust of praise. 
And indolence, that rather wished to sleep. 
And not unfrequently in the same mind, 
They dubious contest held ; one gaining now, 
And now the other crowned, and both again 
Keeping the field, with equal combat fought. 
Much different was their voice : Ambition called 
To action ; Sloth invited to repose. 
Ambition early rose, and, being up. 
Toiled ardently, and late retired to rest ; 
Sloth lay till mid-day, turning on his couch, 
Like ponderous door upon its weary hinge, 
And having rolled him out with much ado, 
And many a dismal sigh, and v-ain attempt, 
He sauntered out accoutred carelessly — 
With half-oped, misty, unobservant eye, 
Somniferous, that weighed the object down 
On which its burden fell — an hour or two, 
Then with a groan retired to rest again. 
The one, whatever deed had been achieved, 
Thought it too little, and too small the praise : 
The other tried to think — for thinking so 
Answered his purpose best — that what of great 
Mankind could do, had been already done ; 
And therefore laid him calmly down to sleep. 

Different in mode — destructive both alike ; 
Destructive always indolence ; and love 
Of fame destructive always too, if less 
Than praise of God it sought — content with less ; 
Even then not current, if it sought his praise 
From other motive than resistless love : 
Though base, main-spring of action in the world; 
And under name of vanity and pride, 
Was greatly practised on by cunning men. 
It opened the niggard's purse ; clothed nakedness ; 
Gave beggars food ; and threw the Pharisee 
Upon his knees, and kept him long in act 
Of prayer ; it spread the lace upon the fop, 
His language trimmed, and planned hia curious 

gait; 
It stuck the feather on the gay coquette, 
And on her finger laid the heavy load 
Of jewelry ; it did — what did it not ? 
The gospel preached, the gospel paid, and sent 
The gospel ; conquered nations ; cities built ; 
Measured the furrow of the field with nice 
Directed share ; shaped bulls, and cows, and 

rams : 
And threw the ponderous stone ; and pitiful, 
Indeed, and much against the grain, it dragged 
The stagnant, dull, predestinated fool, 
Through learning's halls, and made him laboui 

much 
Abortively ; though sometimes not unpraised 
He left the sage's chair, and home returned, 
Making his simple mother think that she 
Had borne a man. In schools, designed to root 
Sin up, and plant the seeds of holiness 
In youthful minds, it held a signal place. 
The little infant man, by nature proud. 
Was taught the Scriptures by the love of praise, 
And grew religious as he grew in fame. 
And thus the principle, which out of heaven 
The devil threw, and threw him down to hell. 
And keeps him there, was made an instrument, 
To moralize, and sanctify mankind ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



717 



And in their hearts beget humility : 

With what success it needs not now to say. 

Destructive both we said, activity, 
And sloth — behold the last exemplified, 
In literary man. Not all at once, 
He yielded to the soothing voice of sleep ; 
But having seen a bough of laurel wave, 
He effort made to climb ; and friends, and even 
Himself, talked of his greatness, as at hand, 
And prophesying drew his future life. 
Vain prophecy ! his fancy, taught by sloth. 
Saw in the very threshold of pursuit, 
A thousand obstacles ; he halted first, 
And while he halted, saw hia burning hopes, 
Grow dirn and dimmer still : ambition's self, 
The advocate of loudest tongue, decayed; 
His purposes, made daily, daily broken, 
Like plant uprooted oft, and set again. 
More sickly grew, and daily wavered more : 
Till at the last, decision, quite worn out, 
Decision, fulcrum of the mental powers. 
Resigned the blasted soul to staggering chance ; 
Sleep gathered fast, and weighed him downward 

still ; 
His eye fell heavy from the mount of fame ; 
His young resolves to benefit the world, 
Perished, and were forgotten ; he shut his ear 
Against the painful news of rising worth ; 
And drank with desperate thirst the poppy's juice ; 
A deep and mortal slumber settled down 
Upon his weary faculties oppressed ; 
He rolled from side to side, and rolled again ; 
And snored, and groaned, and withered, and 

expired, 
And rotted on the spot, leaving no name. 

The hero best example gives of toil 
Unsanctified. One word his history writes; 
He was a murderer above the laws. 
And greatly praised for doing murderous deeds : 
And now he grew, and reached his perfect growth. 
And also now the sluggard soundly slept, 
And by him lay the uninterred corpse. 

Of every order, sin and v/ickedness, 
Deliberate, cool, mahcious villany, 
This age, attained maturity, unknown 
Before : and seemed in travail to bring forth 
Some last, enormous, monstrous deed of guilt — 
Original, unprecedented guilt, 
That might obliterate the memory 
Of what had hitherto been done most vile. 
Inventive men were paid, at public cost, 
To plan new modes of sin : the holy word 
Of God was burned, with acclamations loud ; 
New tortures were invented for the good: 
For still some good remained, as whiles through 

sky 
Of thickest clouds, a wandering star appeared : 
New oaths of blasphemy were framed, and sworn: 
And men in reputation grew, as grew 
The stature of their crimes : Faith was not found ; 
Truth was not found ; truth always scarce ; so 

scarce 
That half the misery which groaned on earth. 
In ordinary times, was progeny 
Of disappointment daily coming forth 



From broken promises, that might have ne'er 

Been made, or being made, might have been kept. 

Jusdce and mercy too were rare, obscured 

In cottage garb': before the palace door, 

The beggar rotted, starving in his rags : 

And on the threshold of luxurious domes. 

The orphan child laid down his head, and died ; 

Nor unamusing was his piteous cry 

To women, who had now laid tenderness 

Aside, best pleased with sights of cruelty ; 

Flocking, when fouler lusts would give them time. 

To horrid spectacles of blood ; where men. 

Or guiltless beasts, that seemed to look to heaven. 

With eye imploring vengeance on the earth, 

Were tortured for the merriment of kings. 

The advocate for him who offered most 

Pleaded ; the scribe, according to the hire, 

Worded the lie, adding for every piece, 

An oath of confirmation ; judges raised 

One hand to intimate the sentence, death, 

Imprisonment, or fine, or loss of goods, 

And in the other held a lusty bribe. 

Which they had taken to give the sentence wrong; 

So managing the scale of justice still. 

That he was wanting found who poorest seemed. 

But laymen, most renowned for devilish deeda, 
Laboured at distance still behind the priest : 
He shore his sheep, and having packed the wool, 
Sent them unguarded to the hill of wolves; 
And to the bowl deliberately sat down. 
And with his mistress mocked at sacred things. 
The theatre was from the very first 
The favourite haunt of sin; though honest men, 
Some very honest, wise, and worthy men. 
Maintained it might be turned to good account ; 
And so perhaps it might ; but never was. 
From first to last it was an evil place : 
And now such things were acted there, as made 
The devils blush: and from the neighbourhood. 
Angels and holy men, trembling, retired. 
And what with dreadful aggravation crowned 
This dreary time, was sin against the hght; 
All men knew God, and, knowing, disobeyed; 
And gloried to insult him to his face. 

Another feature only we shall mark. — 
It was withal a highly polished age. 
And scrupulous in ceremonious rite. 
When stranger stranger met upon the way, 
First each to each bowed most respectfully, 
Atid large profession made of humble service, 
Ar.d then the stronger took the other's purse. 
And he that stabbed his neighbour to the heart. 
Stabbed him politely, and returned the blade 
Reeking into its sheath, with graceful air. 

Meantime the earth gave symptoms of her end ; 
And all the scenery above proclaimed. 
That the great last catastrophe was near. 
The sun at rising staggered and fell back, 
As one too early up, after a night 
Of late debauch ; then rose, and shone again, 
Brighter than wont; and sickened again, and 

paused 

In zemth altitude, as one fatigued ; 
And shed a feeble twihght ray at noon, 
Rousing the wolf before his time, to chase' 



718 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



The shepherd and his sheep, that sought for light, 
And darkness found, astonished, terrified ; 
Then out of course rolled furious down the west, 
As chariot reined by awkward charioteer, 
And waiting at the gate, he on the earth 
Gazed, as he thought he ne'er might see't again. 
The bow of mercy, heretofore so fair. 
Ribbed with the native hues of heavenly love, 
Disastrous colours showed, unseen till now ; 
Changing upon the watery gulf, from pale 
To fiery red, and back again to pale ; 
And o'er it hovered wings of wrath. The moon. 
Swaggered in midst of heaven, grew black and 

dark, 
Unclouded, uneclipsed. The stars fell down ; 
Tumbling from offtheir towers like drunken men ; 
Or seemed to fall — and glimmered now ; and now 
Sprang out in sudden blaze ; and dimmed again ; 
As lamp of foolish virgin lacking oil ; 
The heavens this moment looked serene ; the next. 
Glowed like an oven with God's displeasure hot. 

Nor less below was intimation given 
Of some disaster great and ultimate. 
The tree that bloomed, or hung with clustering 

fruit, 
Untouched by visible calamity 
Of frost or tempest, died and came again; 
The flower, and herb, fell down as sick ; then rose 
And fell again : the fowls of every hue, 
Crowding together, sailed on weary wing, 
And hovering, oft they seemed about to light ; 
Then soared, as if they thought the earth unsafe: 
The cattle looked with meaning face on man : 
Dogs howled, and seemed to see more than their 

masters ; 
And there were sights that none had seen before ; 
And hollow, strange, unprecedented sounds ; 
And earnest whisperings ran along the hills 
At dead of night ; and long, deep, endless sighs, 
Came from the dreary vale ; and from the waste 
Came horrid shrieks, and fierce unearthly groans, 
The wail of evil spirits, that now felt 
The hour of utter vengeance near at hand. 
The winds from every quarter blew at once, 
With desperate violence, and, whirling, took 
The traveller up, and threw him down again 
At distance from his path, confounded, pale. 
And shapes, strange shapes ! in winding sheets 

were seen, 
GHding through night, and singing funeral songs. 
And imitating sad sepulchral rites : 
And voices talked among the clouds ; and still 
The words that men could catch, were spoken of 

them, 
And seemed to be the words of wonder great, 
And expectation of some vast event. 
Earth shook, and swam, and reeled, and opened 

her jaws. 
By earthquake tossed, and tumbled to and fro: 
And louder than the ear of man had heard, 
The thunder bellowed, and. the ocean groaned. 

The race of men, perplexed, but not reformed, 
Flocking together, stood in earnest crowds, 
Conversing of the awful state of things. 
Some curious explanations gave, unlearned ; 
Some tried affectedly lo laugh; and some 



Gazed stupidly ; but all were sad, and pale ; 
And wished the comment of the wise. Nor less 
These prodigies, occurring night and day, 
Perplexed philosophy : the magi tried — 
Magi, a name not seldom given to fools. 
In the vocabulary of earthly speech — 
They tried to trace them still to second cause ; 
But scarcely satisfied themselves ; though round 
Their deep deliberations crowding came. 
And wondering at their wisdom, went away, 
Much quieted, and very much deceived. 
The people, always glad to be deceived. 

These warnings passed — they unregarded pass- 
ed ; 
And all in wonted order calmly moved. 
The pulse of Nature regularly beat, 
And on her cheek the bloom of perfect health 
Again appeared. Deceitful pulse ! and bloom 
Deceitful I and deceitful calm ! The Earth 
Was old and worn within ; but, hke the man. 
Who noticed not his mid-day strength decline, 
Sliding so gently round the curvature 
Of hfe, from youth to age — she knew it not. 
The calm was like the calm, which oft the man 
Dying, experienced before his death ; 
The bloom was but a hectic flush, before 
The eternal paleness : but all these were taken, 
By this last race of men, for tokens of good ; 
And blustering pubhc News aloud proclaimed— 
News always gabbhng, ere they well had 

thought — 
Prosperity, and joy, and peace ; and mocked 
The man who, kneehng, prayed, and trembled 

still. 
And all in earnest to their sins returned. 

It was not so in heaven — the elders round 
The throne conversed about the state of man, 
Conjecturing, for none of certain knew. 
That Time was at an end. They gazed intense 
Upon the Dial's face, which yonder stands 
In gold, before the Sun of Righteousness, 
Jehovah ; and computes times, seasons, years, 
And destinies ; and slowly numbers o'er 
The mighty cycles of eternity ; 
By God alone completely understood ; 
But read by all, revealing much to all. 
And now to saints of eldest skill, the ray, 
Which on the gnomon fell of time, seemed sent 
From level west, and hasting quickly down. 
The holy Virtues, watching, saw besides, 
Great preparation going on in heaven. 
Betokening great event ; greater than aught 
That first created seraphim had seen. 
The faithful messengers, who have for wing 
The hghtning, waiting day and night, on God, 
Before his face — ^beyond their usual speed, 
On pinion of celestial light, were seen. 
Coming and going, and their road was still 
From heaven to earth, and back again to heaven. 
The angel of Mercy, bent before the Throne, 
By earnest pleading, seemed to hold the hand 
Of Vengeance back, and win a moment more 
Of late repentance for some sinful world 
In jeopardy. And now the hill of God, 
The mountain of his majesty, rolled flames 
Of fire ; now smiled with momentary love ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



719 



And now again v,'ith fiery fierceness burned : 
And from behind the darkness of hia Throne, 
Through which created vision never saw, 
The Uviag thunders, in their native caves, 
Muttered the terrors of Omnipotence, 
And ready seemed, impatient to fulfil 
Some errand of exterminating wrath. 

Meanwhile the Earth increased in wickedness. 
And hasted daily to fill up her cup. 
Satan raged loose ; Sin had her will ; and Death 
Enough : blood trode upon the heels of blood ; 
Revenge, in desperate mood, at midnight met 
Revenge ; war brayed to war ; deceit deceived 
Deceit ; lie cheated lie ; and treachery 
Mined under treachery ; and perjury 
Swore back on perjury ; and blasphemy 
Arose with hideous blasphemy ; and curse 
Loud answered curse ; and drunkard stumbling 

fell 
O'er drunkard fallen ; and husband husband met 
Returning each from other's bed defiled ; 
Thief stole from thief; and robber on the way 
Knocked robber down ; and lewdness, violence, 
And hate, met lewdness, violence, and hate. 
Oh Earth ! thy hour was come ; the last elect 
Was born ; complete the number of the good ; 
And the last sand fell from the glass of Time, 
The cup of guilt was full up to the brim ; 
And Mercy, weary with beseeching, had 
Retired behind the sword of Justice, red 
With ultimate and unrepenting wrath : 
But man knew not : he o'er his bowl laughed loud ; 
And prophesying, said : To-morrowshall 
As this day be, and more abundant still — 
As thou shalt hear. . But hark ! the trumpet 



> 



sounds, 



Afid calls to evening song ; for, though with hymn 
Eternal, course succeeding course, extol 
In presence of the incarnate, holy God, 
And celebrate his never-ending praise, — 
Duly at morn, and night, the multitudes 
Of men redemed, and angels, all the hosts 
Of glory, join in universal song ; 
And pour celestial harmony, from harps 
Above all number, eloquent and sweet 
Above all thought of melody conceived. 
And now behold the fair inhabitants. 
Delightful sight ! from numerous business turn, 
And round and round through all the extent of 

bliss. 
Towards the temple of Jehovah bow, 
And worship reverently hefore his face ! 

Pursuits are various here, suiting all tastes : 
Though holy all, and glorifying God. 
Observe yon band pursue the sylvan stream ! 
Mounting among the chffs — they pull the flower, 
Springing as soon as pulled ;■ and marvelling, pry 
Into its veins, and circulating blood, 
And wondrous mimicry of higher life ; 
Admire its colours, fragrance, gentle shape ; 
And thence admire the God who made it so — 
So simple, complex, and so beautiful. . ■ 

Behold yon other band, in airy robes 
Of bliss — they weave the sacred bower of rose 
And myrtle shade, and shadowy verdant bay. 



And laurel towering high ; and round their song, 
The pink and lily bring, and amaranth ; 
Narcissus sweet, and jessamine ; and bring 
The clustering vine, stooping with flower and 

fruit ; 
The peach and orange, and the sparkling stream, 
Warbhng with nectar to their lips unasked ; 
And talk the while of everlasting love. 

On yonder hill, behold another band. 
Of piercing, steady, intellectual eye, 
And spacious forehead, of sublimest thought — 
They reason deep of present, future, past; 
And trace effect to cause ; and meditate 
On the eternal laws of God, which bind 
Circumference to centre ; and survey 
With optic tubes, that fetch remotest stars 
Near them, the systems circling round immense, 
Innumerous. See how — as he, the sage. 
Among the most renowned in days of Time, 
Renowned for large, capacious, holy soul — 
Demonstrates, clearly, motion, gravity. 
Attraction, and repulsions, still opposed; 
And dips into the deep, original. 
Unknown, mysterious elements of things — 
See how the face of every auditor 
Expands with admiration of the skill. 
Omnipotence, and boundless love of God! 

These other, sitting near the tree of life. 
In robes of linen flowing white and clean, 
Of holiest aspect, of divinest soul. 
Angels and men — 'into the glory look 
Of the Redeeming Love, and turn the leaves 
Of man's redemption o'er; the secret leaves, 
Which none on earth were found worthy to open : 
And as they read the mysteries divine. 
The endless mysteries of Salvation wrought 
By God's incarnate Son, they humbler bow 
Before the Lamb, and glow with warmer love. 
These other, there relaxed beneath the shade 
Of yon embowering palms, with friendship smile, 
And talk of ancient days, and young pursuits, 
Of dangers past, of godly triumphs won ; 
And sing the legends of their native land — 
Less pleasing far than this their Father's house, 

Behold that other band, half lifted up 
Between the hill and dale, reclined beneath 
The shadow of impending rocks; 'mong streams, 
And thundering waterfalls, and waving boughs. 
That band of countenance sublime and sweet. 
Whose eye with piercing intellectual ray. 
Now beams severe, or now bewildered seems ; 
Left rolling wild, or fixed in idle gaze. 
While Fancy, and the soul are far from home- 
These hold the pencil — art divine ! and throw 
Before the eye remembered scenes of love : 
Each picturing to each the hills, and skies, 
And treasured stories of the world he left ; 
Or, gazing on the scenery of heaven. 
They dip their hand in colour's native well, 
And, on the everlasting canvass, dash 
Figures of glory, imagery divine. 
With grace and grandeur in perfection knit. 

But whatsoe'er these spirits blest pursue, 
Where'er they go, whatever sights they see 



720 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Of glory and bliss through all the tracts of heaven, God ! everlasting Father ! holy One ! 



The centre still, the figure eminent. 
Whither they ever turn, on whom all eyes 
Repose with infinite delight — is God, 
And his incarnate Son, the Lamb, once slain 
On Calvalry, to ransom ruined men. 

None idle here : look where thou wilt, they ail 
Are active, all engaged in meet pursuit; 
Not happy else. Hence is it that the song 
Of heaven is ever new ; for daily thus, 
And nightly, new discoveries are made, 
Of God's unbounded wisdom, power, and love. 
Which give the understanding larger room, 
And swell the hymn with ever-growing praise. 

Behold they cease ! and every face to God 
Turns ; and we pause, from high poetic theme 
Not worthy least of being sung in heaven. 
And on unveiled Godhead look from this. 
Our oft frequented hill. — He takes the harp, 
Nor needs to seek befitting phrase ; unsought. 
Numbers harmonious roll along the lyre ; 
As river in its native bed, they flow 
Spontaneous, flowing with the tide of thought. 
He takes the harp — a bard of Judah leads 
This night the boundless song : the bard that 

once. 
When I-srael's king was sad and sick to death, 
A message brought of fifteen added years. 
Before the throne he stands sublime, in robes 
Of glory : and now his fingers wake the chords 
To praise, which we, and all in heaven repeat. 

Harps of eternity ! begin the song. 
Redeemed, and angel harps! begin to God, 
Begin the anthem ever sweet and new. 
While I extol Him holy, just, and good. 
Life, beauty, light, intelligence, and love ? 
Eternal, uncreated, infinite ! 
Unsearchable Jehovah ! God of truth ! 
Maker, upholder, governor of all : 
Thyself unmade, ungoverned, unupheld. 
Omnipotent, unchangeable, Great God! 
Exhaustless fulness ! giving unimpaired ! 
Bounding immensity, unspread, unbound ! 
Highest and best! beginning, middle, end. 
All-seeing Eye ! all-seeing, and unseen ! 
Hearing, unheard ! all knowing, and unknown ! 
Above all praise ! above all height of thought ! 
Proprietor of immortahty ! 
Glory ineffable ! Bliss underived! 
Of old thou built'st thy throne on righteousness, 
Before the morning Stars their song began, 
Or silence heard the voice of praise. Thou laid'st 
Eternity's foundation stone, and saw'st 
Life and existence out of Thee begin. 
Mysterious more, the more displayed, where still 
Upon thy glorious Throne thou sitt'st alone ; 
Hast sat alone ; and shalt for ever sit 
Alone ; invisible, immortal One ! 
Behind essential brightness unbeheld. 
Incomprehensible ! what weight shall weigh, 
What measure measure Thee ? what know we 

more 
Of Thee, what need to know, than Thou hast 

taught, 
And bidd'st us still repeat, at morn and even — 



Our God, our Father, our Eternal All. 
Source whence we came : and whither we return ; 
Who made our spirits, who our bodies made ; 
Who made the heaven, who made the flowery 

land ; 
Who made all made ; who orders, governs all; 
Who walks upon the wind ; who holds the -wave 
In hollow of thy hand ; whom thunders wait ; 
Whom tempests serve ; whom flaming fires obey : 
Who guides the circuit of the endless years: 
And sitt'st on high, and mak'st creation's top 
Thy footstool : and behold'st below Thee, all — 
All nought, all less than nought, and vanity. 
Like transient dust that hovers on the scale. 
Ten thousand worlds are scattered in thy breath. 
Thou sitt'st on high, and nieasur'st destinies. 
And days, and months, and wide revolving years : 
And dost according to thy holy will ; 
And none can stay thy hand ; and none withhold 
Thy glory ; for in judgment, Thou, as well 
As mercy, art exalted day and night ; 
Past, present, future, magnify thy name. 
Thy works all praise Thee : all thy angels praise: 
Thy saints adore, and on thy altars burn 
The fragrant incense of perpetual love. 
They praise Thee now : their hearts, their voicas 

praise. 
And swell the rapture of the glorious song. 
Harp ! lift thy voice on high — shout, angels shoul ! 
And loudest ye redeemed ! glory to God, 
And to the Lamb, who bought us with his blood. 
From every kindred, nation, people, tongue; 
And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls ; 
And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns 
Of life, and made us kings and priests to God. 
Shout back to ancient Time ! Sing loud, and wave 
Your palms of triumph I sing, Where is thy sting, 
O Death ? where is thy victory, O grave ? 
Thanks be to God, eternal thanks, who gave 
Us victory through Jesua Christ our Lord. 
Harp, lift thy voice on high ! shout, angels shout, 
And loudest ye redeemed ! glory to God, 
And to the Lamb — all glory and all praise ; 
All glory and all praise, at morn and even, 
That conie and go eternally ; and find 
Us happy still, and Thee for ever blest. 
Glory to God, and to the Lamb. Ament. 
For ever, and for evermore. Amen. 

And those who stood upon the sea of glass; 
And those who stood upon the battlements. 
And lofty towers of New Jerusalem ; 
And those who circhng stood, bowing afar ; 
Exalted on the everlasting hills, 
Thousands of thousands — thousands infinite— 
With voice of boundless love, answered : Amen. 
And through eternity, near, and remote. 
The worlds adoring, echoed back: Amen. 
And God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost— 
The One Eternal ! smiled superior bliss. 
And every eye, and every face in heaven, 
Reflecting, and reflected, beamed with lore. 

Nor did he not — the Virtue new arrived, 
From Godhead gain an individual smite, 
Of high acceptance, and of welcome high. 
And confirmation evermore in good. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



721 



Meantime the landscape glowed with holy joy. 
Zephyr, with wing dipt from the well of life, 
Sporting through Paradise, shed living dews : 
The flowers, the spicy shrubs, the lawns re- 
freshed. 
Breathed their selectest balm ; breathed odours, 

such 
As angels love : and all the trees of heaven, 
The cedar, pine, and everlasting oak. 
Rejoicing on the mountains, clapped their hands. 



BOOK VII, 



ANALYSIS. 

After the Hymn, the relation is resumed. The 
transformation of the living, the resurrection of 
the dead, and the destruction of the Earth. 

On the morn of the final day all the appearances 
of nature were as usual, at mid-day universal 
darkness prevailed, and all action, all motion 
ceased : and an angel from heaven proclaimed, 
" Time should be no more." And another 
Angel sounded the Trump of God, when the 
dead awoke, and the living were changed. 

A description of the circumstances connected with 
the momentous scene ; the living were changed 
in the midst of their several numerous avoca- 
tions ; in labour, study, pleasure, or crimes. 
The dead of every age and place raised to life ; 
in the cultivated field, in the wilderness, in popu- 
lous cities, in the midst of ancient ruins, and 
from the great ocean. 



As one who meditates at evening tide, 
Wandering alone by voiceless solitudes, 
And flies in fancy, far beyond the bounds 
Of visible and vulgar things, and things 
Discovered hitherto, pursuing tracts 
As yet untravelled, and unknow n, through vast 
Of new and sweet imaginings ; if chance 
Some airy harp, waked by the gentle sprites 
Of twilight, or light touch of sylvan maid, 
In soft succession fall upon his ear. 
And fill the desert with its heavenly tones, 
He listens intense, and pleased exceedingly, 
And wishes it may never stop ; yet when 
It stops, grieves not ; but to his former thoughts 
With fondest haste returns : so did the Seer, 
So did his audience, after worship past. 
And praise in heaven, return to sing, to hear 
Of man ; not worthy less the sacred lyre, 
Or the attentive ear : and thus the bard, 
Not unbesought, again resumed his song. 

In customed glory bright, that morn the sun 
Rose, visiting the earth with light, and heat. 
And joy ; and seemed as full of youth, and strong 
To mount the steep of heaven, as when the Stars 
Of morning sung to his first dawn, and night 
Fled from his face : the spacious sky received 
Him, blushing as a bride, when on her looked 
91 



The bridegroom : and, spread out beneath his eye, 
Earth smiled. Up to his warm embrace tKe 

dews 
That all night long had wept his absence, flew : 
The herbs and flowers their fragrant stores un- 
locked. 
And gave the wanton breeze, that, newly woke, 
Revelled in sweets, and from its wings shook 

health, 
A thousand grateful smells : the joyous woods 
Dried in his beams their locks, wet with the drops 
Of night : and all the sons of music sung 
Their matin song ; from arboured bower, the 

thrush 
Concerting- with the lark that hymned on high: 
On the green hill the flocks, and in the vale 
The herbs rejoiced : and, Ught of heart, the hind 
Eyed amorously the milk-maid as she passed, 
Not heedless, though she looked another way. 

No sign was there of change : all nature moved 
In wonted harmony ; men as they met 
In morning salutation, praised the day, 
And talked of common things : the husbandman 
Prepared the soil, and silver tongued Hope 
Promised another harvest : in the streets. 
Each wishing to make profit of his neighbour. 
Merchants, assembhng, spoke of trying times, 
Of bankruptcies, and markets glutted full : 
Or crowding to the beach, where, to their ear. 
The oath of foreign accent, and the noise 
Uncouth of trade's rough sons, made music sweet. 
Elate with certain gain, beheld the bark, 
Expected long, enriched with other climes, 
Into the harbour safely steer ; or saw. 
Parting with many a weeping farewell sad, 
And blessing uttered rude, and sacred pledge, 
The rich laden carrack, bound to distant shore; 
And hopefully talked of her coming back 
With richer freight : or sitting at the desk, 
In calculation deep and intricate. 
Of loss and profit balancing, reUeved 
At intervals the irksome task, with thought 
Of future ease, retired in villa snug. 

With subtle look, amid his parchments sat 
The lawyer, weaving his sophistries for court 
To meet at mid-day. On bis weary couch 
Fat luxury, sick of the night's debauch, 
Lay groaning, fretful at the obstrusive beam, 
That through his lattice peeped derisively : 
The restless miser had begun again 
To count his heaps : before her toilet stood 
The fair, and, as with guileful skill she decked 
Her loveliness, thought of the coming ball. 
New lovers, or the sweeter nuptial night. 
And evil men, of desperate lawless life. 
By oath of deep damnation leagued to ill 
Remorselessly, fled from the face of day, 
Against the innocent their counsel held, 
Plotting unpardonable deeds of blood, 
And villanies of fearful magnitude : 
Despots, secured behind a thousand bolts, 
The workmanship of fear, forged chains for man: 
Senates were meeting : statesmen loudly talked 
Of national resources, war and peace ; 
And sagely balanced empires soon to end : 
And faction's jaded minions, by the page 



722 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Paid for abuse, and oft-repeated lies, 

In daily prints, the thoroughfare of news, 

For party schemes made interest, under cloak 

Of liberty, and right, and public weal: 

In holy conclave, bishops spoke of tithes. 

And of the awful wickedness of men: 

Intoxicate with sceptres, diadems, 

And universal rule, and panting hard 

For fame, heroes were leading on the brave 

To battle ; men, in science deeply read, 

And academic theory, foretold 

Improvements vast : and learned sceptics proved 

That earth should with eternity endure ; 

Concluding madly that there was no God. 

No sign of change appeared ; to every man 
That day seemed as the past. From noontide 

path 
The sun looked gloriously on earth, and all 
Her scenes of giddy folly smiled secure. 
When suddenly, alas, fair Earth ! the sun 
Was wrapt in darkness, and his beams returned 
Up to the throne of God ; and over all 
The earth came night, moonless and starless 

night. 
Nature stood still ; the seas and rivers stood, 
And all the winds; and every living thing. 
The cataract, that like a giant wroth. 
Rushed down impetuously, as seized, at once, 
By sudden frost with all his hoarj^ locks, 
Stood still : and beasts of every kind stood still. 
A deep and dreadful silence reigned alone ! 
Hope died in every breast ; and on all men 
Came fear and trembling : none to his neighbour 

spoke 
Husband thought not of wife ; nor of her child 
The mother ; nor friend of friend ; nor foe of foe. 
In horrible suspense all mortals stood ; 
And as they stood, and listened, chariots were 

heard 
Rolling in heaven : revealed in flaming fire, 
The angel of God appeared in stature vast, 
Blazing, and, Hfting up his hand on high. 
By Him that lives for ever, swore, that Time 
Should be no more. — Throughout, creation heard 
And sighed ; all rivers, lakes, and seas, and woods. 
Desponding waste, and cultivated vale ; 
Wild cave, and ancient hill, and every rock 
Sighed: earth, arrested in her wonted path. 
As ox struck by the lifted axe, when nought 
Was feared, in all her entrails deeply groaned. 
A universal crash was heard, as if 
The ribs of nature broke, and all her dark 
Foundations failed : and deadly paleness sat 
On every face of man, and every heart 
Grew chill, and every knee his fellow smote. 
None spoke, none stirred, none wept ; for horror 

held 
All motionless, and fettered every tongue. 
Again, o'er all the nations silence fell : 
And, in the heavens, robed in excessive light, 
That drove the thick of darkness far aside. 
And walked with penetration keen through all 
The abodes of men, another angel stood, 
And blew the trump of God. — Awake, ye dead ! 
Be changed, ye living ! and put on the garb 
Of immortality ! Awake! arise! 
The God of judgment comes. This said the voice : 



And Silence, from eternity that slept 
Beyond the sphere of the creating Word, 
And all the noise of Time, awakened, heard. 
Heaven heard, and earth, and farthest hell through 

all 
Her regions of despair : the ear of Death 
Heard, and the sleep that for so long a night 
Pressed on his leaden eyehds, fled : and all 
The dea4 awoke, and all the living changed. 

Old men, that on their staff, bending had leaned, 
Crazy and frail ; or sat, benumbed with age, 
In weary listlessness, ripe for the grave. 
Felt through their sluggish veins, and withered 

limbs. 
New vigour flow : the wrinkled face grew smooth ; 
Upon the head, that time had razored bare, 
Rose bushy locks ; and as his son, in prime 
Of strength and youth, the aged father stood. 
Changing herself, the mother saw her son 
Grow up, and suddenly put on the form 
Of manhood : and the wretch, that begging sat 
Limbless, deformed, at corner of the way. 
Unmindful of his crutch, in joint and limb 
Arose complete : and he that on the bed 
Of mortal sickness, worn with sore distress. 
Lay breathing forth his soul to death, felt now 
The tide of life and vigour rushing back ; 
And looking up beheld his weeping wife, 
And daughter fond, that o'er him, bending, 

stooped 
To close his eyes : the frantic madman too, 
In whose confused brain, reason had lost 
Her way, long driven at random to and fro, 
Grew sober, and his manacles fell off. 
The newly sheeted corpse arose, and stared 
On those who dressed it : and the coffined dead, 
That men were bearing to the tomb, awoke. 
And mingled with their friends : and armies, which 
The trump surprised, met in the furious shock 
Of battle, savvthe bleeding ranks, new fallen. 
Rise up at once, and to their ghastly cheeks 
Return the stream of life in healthy flow. 
And as the anatomist, with all his band 
Of rude disciples, o'er the subject hung, 
And 'impolitely hewed his way through bones 
And muscles of the sacred human form. 
Exposing barbarously to wanton gaze, 
The mysteries of nature — joint embraced ^ 

His kindred joint, the wounded flesh grew up, 
And suddenly the injured man awoke, 
Among their hands, and stood arrayed complete 
In immortality — forgiving scarce 
The insult offered to his clay in death. 

That was the hour, long wished for by the 
good. 
Of universal Jubilee to all 

The sons of bondage ; from the oppressor's hand 
The scourge of violence fell ; and from his back, 
Healed of its stripes, the burden of the slave. 

The youth of great religious soul — who sat 
Retired in voluntary loneliness, 
In reverie extravagant now wrapt. 
Or poring now on book of ancient date. 
With filial awe ; and dipping oft his pen 
To write immortal things ; to pleasure deaf, 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



723 



And joys of common men ; working his way 

With mighty energy, not uninspired, 

Through all the mines of thought ; reckless of 

pain. 
And weariness, and wasted health ; the scoff 
Of pride, or growl of Envy's heUish brood ; 
While Fancy, voyaged far beyond the bounds 
Of years revealed, heard many a future age, 
With commendation loud, repeat his name — 
False prophetess ! the day of change was come — 
Behind the shadow of eternity, 
He saw his visions set of earthly fame ; 
For ever set : nor sighed, while through his veins 
In lighter current ran immortal life ; 
His form renewed to undecaying health ; 
To undecaying health his soul, erewhile 
Not tuned amiss to God's eternal praise. 

All men in field and city ; by the way ; 
On land or sea ; lolhng in gorgeous hall. 
Or plying at the oar ; crawling in rags 
Obscure, or dazzhng in embroidered gold ; 
Alone, in companies, at home, abroad ; 
In wanton merriment surprised and taken ; 
Or kneeling reverently in act of prayer ; 
Or cursing recklessly, or uttering lies ; 
Or lapping greedily from slander's cup 
The blood of reputation ; or between 
Friendships and brotherhoods devising strife ; 
Or plotting to defile a neighbour's bed ; 
In duel met with dagger of revenge ; 
Or casting on the widow's heritage 
The eye of covetousness ; or with full hand 
On mercy's noiseless errands, unobserved, 
Administering ; or meditating fraud 
And deeds of horrid barbarous intent ; 
In full pursuit of unexperienced hope, 
Fluttering along the flowery path of youth ; 
Or steeped in disappointment's bitterness — 
The fevered cup that guilt must ever drink. 
When parched and fainting on the road of ill ; 
Beggar and king, the clown and haughty lord ; 
The venerable sage, and empty fop ; 
The ancient matron, and the rosy bride ; 
The virgin chaste, and shrivelled harlot vile ; 
The savage fierce, and man of science mild ; 
The good and evil, in a moment, all 
Were changed, corruptible to incorrupt, 
And mortal to immortal, ne'er to change. 

And now, descending from the bowers of 
heaven, 
Soft airs o'er all the earth, spreading, were heard, 
And Hallelujahs sweet, the harmony 
Of righteous souls that came to repossess 
Their long neglected bodies : and anon 
Upon the ear fell horribly the sound 
Of cursing, and the yells of damned despair. 
Uttered by felon spirits that the trump 
Had summoned from the burning glooms of hell, 
To put their bodies on — reserved for woe. 

Now starting up among the living, changed, 
Appeared innumerous the risen dead. 
Each particle of dust was claimed : the turf. 
For ages trod beneath the careless foot 
Of men, rose organized in human form ; 
The monumental stones were rolled away ; 



The doors of death were opened ; and in the dark 
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel house, 
Moving, were heard the mouldered bones that 

sought 
Their proper place. Instinctive every soul 
Flew to its clayey part : from grass-grown mould 
The nameless spirit took its ashes up. 
Reanimate : and, merging from beneath 
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose 
The great — nor heeded once the lavish rhyme. 
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain. 
The Memphian mummy, that from age to age i 
Descending, bought and sold a thousand times. 
In hall of curious antiquary stowed, 
Wrapt in mysterious weeds, the wondrous theme- 
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags. 
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside 
The European, his last purchaser. 
In vale remote the hermit rose, surprised 
At crowds that rose around him, where he thought 
His slumbers had been single : and the bard, 
Who fondly covenanted with his friend 
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough 
Of some old lonely tree, rising, was pressed 
By multitudes, that claimed their proper dust 
From the same spot : and he that, richly hearseci 
With gloomy garniture of purchased woe, 
Embalmed, in princely sepulchre was laid, 
Apart from vulgar men, built nicely round 
And round by the proud heir, who blushed t© 

think 
His father's lordly clay should ever mix 
With peasant dust — saw by his side awake 
The clown, that long had slumbered in his arms* 

The family tomb, to whose devouring moutt 
Descended sire and son, age after age. 
In long unbr<)ken hereditary line. 
Poured forth at once the ancient father rude, 
And all his offspring of a thousand years. 
Refreshed from sweet repose, awoke the man 
Of charitable life — awoke and sung : 
And from his prison house, slowly and sad, 
As if unsatisfied with holding near 
Communion with the earth, the miser drew 
His carcass forth, and gnashed his teeth, and 

howled, 
Unsolaced by his gold and silver then. 
From simple stone in lonely wilderness. 
That hoary lay, o'er-lettered by the hand 
Of oft-frequenting pilgrim, who had taught 
The willow tree to weep at morn and even 
Over the sacred spot — the martyr saint 
To song of seraph harp triumphant rose. 
Well pleased that he had suffered to the death. 
' ' The cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces," 
As sung the bard of Nature's hand anointed. 
In whose capacious giant numbers rolled 
The passions of old Time, fell lumbering down. 
All cities fell, and every work of man. 
And gave their portion forth of human dust. 
Touched by the mortal finger of decay. 
Tree, herb, and flower, and every fowl of heaven^ 
And fish, and animal, the wild and tame. 
Forthwith dissolving, crumbled into dust. 

Alas, ye sons of strength ! ye ancient oaks! 
Ye holy pines ! ye elms ! and cedars tall ! 



724 



ROBERT POLLOK 



Like towers of God, far seen on Carmel mount, 
Or Lebanon, that waved your boughs on high, 
And laughed at all the winds — your hour was 

come ! 
Ye laurels, ever green ! and bays, that wont 
To wreathe the patriot and the poet's brow ; 
Ye myrtle bowers ! and groves of sacred shade ! 
Where Music ever sung, and Zephyr fanned 
His airy wing, wet with the dews of hfe, 
And Spring for ever smiled, the fragrant haunt 
Of Love, and Health, and ever dancing Mirth — 
Alas ! how suddenly your verdure died, 
And ceased your minstrelsy, to sing no more. 
Ye flowers of beauty ! penciled by the hand 
Of God, who annually renewed your birth, 
To gem the virgin robes of Nature chaste, 
Ye smiling featured daughters of the Sun ! 
Fairer than queenly bride, by Jordan's stream 
Leading your gentle Uves, retired, unseen; 
Or on the sainted cliflfs of Zion hill, 
Wandering, and holding with the heavenly dews. 
In holy revelry, your nightly loves. 
Watched by the stars, and offering every morn 
Your incense grateful both to God and man. 
Ye lovely gentle things ! alas, no spring 
Shall ever wake you now ! ye withered all, 
All in a moment drooped, and on your roots 
The grasp of everlasting winter seized. 
Children of song ! ye birds that dwelt in air, 
And stole your notes from angels' lyres, and first 
In levee of the morn, with eulogy 
Ascending, hailed the advent of the dawn; 
Or, roosted on the pensive evening bough, 
In melancholy numbers sung the day 
To rest, your little wings, failing, dissolved 
In middle air, and on your harmony 
Perpetual silence fell. Nor did his wing. 
That sailed in track of gods sublime, and fanned 
The sun, avail the eagle then ; quick smitten. 
His plumage withered in meridian height, 
And, in the valley, sunk the lordly bird, 
A clod of clay. Before the ploughman fell 
His steers, and mid-way the furrow left: 
The shepherd saw his flocks around him turn 
To dust ; beneath his rider fell the steed 
To ruins : and the lion in his den 
Grew cold and stiff, or in the furious chase, 
With timid fawn, that scarcely missed his paws. 
On earth no living thing was seen but men. 
New changed, or rising from the opening tomb. 

Athens, and Rome, and Babylon, and Tyre, 
And she that sat on Thames, queen of the seas ! 
Cities once famed on earth, convulsed through all 
Their mighty ruins, threw their millions forth. 
Palmyra's dead, where Desolation sat. 
From age to age, well pie; -ed, in solitude 
And silence, save when traveller's foot, or owl 
Of night, or fragment mouldering down to dust, 
Broke faintly on his desert ear, awoke. 
And Salem, holy city, where the Prince 
Of Life, by death, a second life secured 
To man, and with him from the grave, redeemed, 
A chosen number brought, to retinue 
His great ascent on high, and give sure pledge 
That death was foiled, — her generations now 
Gave up, of kings, and priests, and Pharisees ; 
Nor even the Sadducee, who fondly said 



No morn of Resurrection ere should come. 
Could sit the summons : to his ear did reach 
The trumpet's voice ; and ill prepared for what 
He oft had proved should never be, he rose 
Reluctantly, and on his face began 
To burn eternal shame. The cities too. 
Of old ensepulchred beneath the flood, 
Or deeply slumbering under mountains huge. 
That Earthquake — servant of the wrath of God- 
Had on their wicked population thrown, 
And marts of busy trade, long ploughed and sown, 
By history unrecorded, or the song 
Of bard, yet not forgotten their wickedness 
In heaven — poured forth their ancient multitudes, 
That vainly wished their sleep had never broke. 
From battle-fields, where men by millions met 
To murder each his fellow, and make sport 
To kings and heroes — things long since forgotr— 
Innumerous armies rose, unbannered all, 
Unpanoplied, unpraised ; nor found a prince. 
Or general then, to answer for their crimes. 
The hero's slaves, and all the scarlet troops 
Of antichrist, and all that fought for rule — 
Many high-sounding names, familiar once 
On earth, and praised exceedingly ; but now 
Familiar most in hell — their dungeon fit. 
Where they may war eternally with God's 
Almighty thunderbolts, and win them pangs 
Of keener woe — saw, as they sprung to life, 
The widow, and the orphan ready stand. 
And helpless virgin, ravished in their sport. 
To plead against them at the coming Doom. 
The Roman legions, boasting once, hov/ loud! 
Of liberty ; and fighting bravely o'er 
The torrid and the frigid zone, the sands 
Of burning Egypt, and the frozen hills 
Of snowy Albion, to make mankind 
Their thralls, untaught that he who made or kept 
A slave, could ne'er himself be truly free — 
That morning gathered up their dust, which lay 
Wide scattered over half the globe : nor saw 
Their eagled banners then. Sennacherib's hosts, 
Embattled once against the sons of God, 
With insult bold, quick as the noise of mirth 
And revelry, sunk in their drunken camp, 
When death's dark angel, at the dead of night, 
Their vitals touched, and made each pulse stand 

still- 
Awoke in sorrow : and the multitudes 
Of Gog, and all the fated crew that warred 
Against the chosen saints, in the last days, 
At Armageddon, when the Lord came down. 
Mustering his hosts on Israel's holy hills. 
And from the treasures of his snow and hail 
Rained terror, and confusion rained, and death, 
And gave to all the beasts, and fowls of heaven 
Of captains' flesh, and blood of men of war, 
A feast of many days — revived, and, doomed 
To second death, stood in Hamonah's vale. 

Nor yet did all that fell in battle, rise 
That day to wailing : here and there were seen 
The patriot bands, that from his guilty throne 
The despot tore, unshackled nations, made 
The prince respect the people's laws, drove back 
The wave of proud invasion, and rebuked 
The frantic fury of the multitude, 
Rebelled, and fought and fell for liberty 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



725 



Right understood — true heroes in the speech 
Of heaven, where words express the thoughts of 

him 
Who speaks — not undistinguished these, though 

few. 
That morn arose, with joy and melody. 
All woke — the north and south gave up their dead : 
The caravan, that in mid-journey sunk, 
With all its merchandise, expected long, 
And long forgot, ingulphed beneath the tide 
Of death, that the wild spirit of the winds 
Swept, in his wrath, along the wilderness, 
In the wide desert woke, and saw all calm 
Around, and populous with risen men : 
Nor of his relics thought the pilgrim then, 
Nor merchant of his silks and spiceries. 

And he — far voyaging from home and friends, 
Too curious, with a mortal eye to peep 
Into the secrets of the Pole, forbid 
By nature, whom fierce winter seized, and froze 
To death, and wrapped in winding sheet of ice. 
And sung the requiem of his shivering ghost 
With the loud organ of his mighty winds, 
And on his memory threw the snow of ages — 
Felt the long absent warmth of life return. 
And shook the frozen mountain from his bed. 

All rose, of every age, of every clime: 
Adam and Eve, the great progenitors 
Of all mankind, fair as they seemed that morn 
When first they met in paradise, unfallen, 
Uncursed — ^from ancient slumber broke, where 

once 
Euphrates rolled his stream; and by them stood. 
In stature equal, and in soul as large. 
Their last posterity — though poets sung. 
And sages proved them far degenerate. 



Blessed sight ! not unobserved by angels, or 
Unpraised — that day 'mong men of every tribe 
And hue, from those who drank of Tenglio's 

stream. 
To those who nightly saw the hermit cross. 
In utmost south retired, — rising, were seen 
The fair and ruddy sons of Albion's land — 
How glad ! — not those who travelled far, and 

sailed 
.-5'0 purchase human flesh ; or wreathe the yoke 
Of vassalage on savage liberty ; 
Or suck large fortune from the sweat of slaves ; 
Or with refined knavery to cheat, 
Politely villanous, untutored men 
Out of their property ; or gather shells. 
Intaglios rude, old pottery, and store 
Of mutilated gods of stone, and scraps 
Of barbarous epitaphs defaced, to be 
Among the learned the theme of warm debate, 
And infinite conjecture, sagely wrong ! 
But those, denied to self, to earthly fame 
Denied, and earthly wealth, who kindred left, 
And home, and ease, and all the cultured joys, 
Conveniences, and dehcate delights 
Of ripe society ; in the great cause 
Of man's salvation greatly valorous. 
The warriors of Messiah, messengers 
Of peace, and light, and life, whose eye, unsealed. 
Saw up the path of immortality, 



Far into bliss — saw men, immortal men, 

Wide wandering from the way ; eclipsed in night. 

Dark, moonless, moral night; living like beasts; 

Like beasts descending to the grave, untaught 

Of life to come, unsanctified, unsaved: 

Who strong, though seeming weak ; who warhke, 

though 
Unarmed with bow and sword ; appearing mad. 
Though sounder than the schools alone ere made 
The doctor's head ; devote to God and truth. 
And sworn to man's eternal weal — beyond 
Repentance sworn, or thought of turning back ; 
And casting far behind all earthly care. 
All country ships, all national regards 
And enmities ; all narrow bournes of state 
And selfish policy ; beneath their feet 
Treading all fear of opposition down ; 
All fear of danger ; of reproach all fear, 
And evil tongues ; — went forth, from Britain went, 
A noiseless band of heavenly soldiery. 
From out the armoury of God equipped, 
Invincible, to conquer sin ; to blow 
The trump of freedom in the despot's ear ; 
To tell the bruted slave his manhood high, 
I His birthright liberty, and in his hand 
To put the writ of manumission, signed 
By God's own signature : to drive away 
From earth the dark infernal legionry 
Of superstition, ignorance, and hell : 
High on the pagan hills, where Satan sat 
Encamped, and o'er the subject kingdoms threw 
Perpetual night, to plant Immanuel's cross, 
The ensign of the Gospel, blazing round 
Immortal truth ; and in the wilderness 
Of human waste to sow eternal hfe ; 
And from the rock, where sin, with horrid yell. 
Devoured its victims unredeemed, to raise 
The melody of grateful hearts to Heaven ; 
To fasehood, truth ; to pride, humility ; 
To insult, meekness; pardon, to revenge; 
To stubborn prejudice, unwearied zeal; 
To censure, unaccusing minds ; to stripes. 
Long suifering: to want of all things, hope ; 
To death, assured faith of life to come. 
Opposing — these, great worthies, rising, shone 
Through all the tribes and nations of mankind, 
Like Hesper, glorious once among the stars 
Of twilight ; and around them, flocking, stood„ 
Arrayed in white, the people they had saved. 



Great Ocean too, that morning, thou, the call 
Of restitution heardst, and reverently 
To the last trumpet's voice in silence hstened! 
Great Ocean ! strongest of creation's sons ! 
Unconquerable, unreposed, untired ; 
That rolled the wild, profound, eternal bass, 
In Nature's anthem, and made music, such 
As pleased the ear of God. Original, 
Unmarred, unfaded work of Deity ; 
And imburlesqued by mortal's puny skill. 
From age to age enduring and unchanged : 
Majestical, inimitable, vast. 
Loud uttering satire day and night on each 
Succeeding race, and Httle pompous work 
Of man. Unfallen, religious, holy sea ! 
Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedat 

none, 
! Heardst none, to none didst honour, but to God 



726 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Thy maker — only worthy to receive 

Thy great obeisance. Undiscovered sea ! 

Into thy dark, unknown, mysterious caves. 

And secret haunts, unfathomably deep 

Beneath all visible retired, none went. 

And came again, to tell the wonders there. 

Tremendous sea ! what time thou lifted up 

Thy waves on high, and with thy winds and storms 

Strange pastime took, and shook thy mighty sides 

Indignantly — the pride of navies fell ; 

Beyond the arm of help, unheard, unseen, 

Sunk friend and foe, with all their wealth and war ; 

And on thy shores, men of a thousand tribes, 

Pohte and barbarous, trembhng stood, amazed. 

Confounded, terrified, and thought vast thoughts 

Of ruin, boundlessness, omnipotence. 

Infinitude, eternity ; and thought 

And wondered still, and grasped, and grasped, and 

grasped 
Again — beyond her reach exerting all 
The soul to take thy great idea in, 
To comprehend imcomprehensible ; 
And wondered more, and felt their littleness. 
Self-purifying, unpolluted sea ! 
Lover unchangeable ! thy faithful breast 
For ever heaving to the lovely moon. 
That Uke a shy and holy virgin, robed 
In saintly white, walked nightly in the heavens. 
And to thy everlasting serenade 
Gave gracious audience ; nor was wooed in vain. 
■ That morning, thou, that slumbered not before, 
J^Jor slept, great Ocean ! laid thy waves to rest. 
And hushed thy mighty minstrelsy. No breath 
Thy deep composure stirred, no fin, no oar ; 
Like beauty newly dead, so calm, so still. 
So lovely, thou, beneath the light that fell 
From angel-chariots sentinelled on high. 
Reposed, and hstened, and saw thy living change. 
Thy dead arise. Charybdis listened, and Scylla, 
And savage Euxine, on the Thracian beach, 
Lay motionless : and every battle ship 
Stood still; and every ship of merchandise. 
And all that sailed, of every name, stood still. 
Even as the ship of war, full fledged and swift. 
Like some fierce bird of prey, bore on her foe, 
Opposing with as fell intent, the wind 
Fell withered from her wings, that idly hung; 
The stormy bullet, by the cannon thrown 
Uncivilly against the heavenly face 
Of men, half sped, sunk harmlessly, and all 
Her loud, uncircumcised, tempestuous crew. 
How ill prepared to meet their God ! were 

changed. 
Unchangeable — the pilot at the helm 
Was changed, and the rough captain, .while he 

mouthed 
The huge enormous oath. The fisherman, 
That in his boat expectant watched his lines. 
Or mended on the shore his net, and sung, 
Happy in thoughtlessness, some careless air, 
Heard Time depart, and felt the sudden change. 
In solitary deep, far out from land. 
Or steering from the port with many a cheer. 
Or while returning from long voyage, fraught 
With lusty wealth, rejoicing to have escaped 
The dangerous main and plagues of foreign climes, 
The merchant quaflfed his native air, refreshed, 
And saw his native hills in the sun's light 



Serenely rise, and thought of meetings glad, 
And many days of ease and honour spent 
Among his friends — unwarned man ! even then 
The knell of Time broke on his reverie, 
And in the twinkhng of an eye his hopes, 
All earthly, perished all. As sudden rose, 
From out their watery beds, the Ocean's dead, 
Renewed, and on the unstirring billows stood, 
From pole to pole, thick covering all the sea ; 
Of every nation blent, and every age. 

Wherever slept one grain of human dust, 
Essential organ of a human soul, 
Wherever tossed — obedient to the call 
Of God's omnipotence, it hurried on 
To meet its fellow particles, revived, 
Rebuilt, in union indestructible. 
No atom of his spoils remained to Death. 
From his strong arm by stronger arm released, 
Immortal now in soul and body both. 
Beyond his reach, stood all the sons of men, 
And saw behind his valley lie unfeared. 

O Death ! with what an eye of desperate liist, 
From out thy emptied vaults, thou then didst look 
After the risen multitudes of all 
Mankind ! Ah, thou hadst been the terror long, 
And murderer of all of woman born. 
None could escape thee ! In thy dungeon house, 
Where darkness dwelt, and putrid loathsomeness, 
And fearful silence, villanously still, 
And all of horrible and deadly name, — 
Thou satt'st from age to age, insatiate. 
And drank the blood of men, and gorged their 

flesh, 
And with thy iron teeth didst grind their bonea 
To powder — treading out beneath thy feet 
Their very names and memories : the blood 
Of nations could not slake thy parched throat. 
No bribe could buy thy favour for an hour, 
Or mitigate thy ever cruel rage 
For human prey. Gold, beauty, virtue, youth ; 
Even helpless swaddled innocency failed 
To soften thy heart of stone : the infant's blood 
Pleased well thy taste — and while the mother 

wept, 
Bereaved by thee, lonely and waste in woe, 
Thy ever grinding jaws devoured her too. 

Each son of Adam's family beheld. 
Where'er he turned, whatever path of life 
He trode, thy gobhn form behind him stand, 
Like trusty old assassin, in his aim 
Steady and sure as eye of destiny. 
With scythe, and dart, and strength invincible 
Equipped, and ever menacing his hfe. 
He turned aside, he drowned himself in sleep. 
In wine, in pleasure ; travelled, voyaged, sought 
Receipts for health from all he met ; betook 
To business speculate ; retired ; returned 
Again to active life ; again retired ; 
Returned ; retired again ; prepared to die > 
Talked of thy nothingness ; conversed of life 
To come ; laughed at his fears ; filled up the cup 
Drank deep; refrained; filled up; refrained 

again ; 
Planned; built him round with splendour, won 
applause ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



727 



Made large alliances with men and things ; 
Read deep in science and philosophy, 
To fortify his soul ; heard lectures prove 
The present ill, and future good ; observed 
His pulse beat regular ; extended hope ; 
Thought, dissipated thought, and thought again; 
Indulged, abstained, and triedathousand schemes, 
To ward thy blow, or hide thee from his eye ; 
But still thy gloomy terrors, dipped in sin. 
Before him frowned, and withered all his joy. 
Still, feared and hated thing, thy ghostly shape 
Stood in his avenues of fairest hope ; 
Unmannerly, and uninvited, crept 
Into his haunts of most select delight : 
Still on his halls of mirth, and banqueting, 
And revelry, thy shadowy hand was seen 
Writing thy name of— Death. Vile worm, that 

gnawed 
The root of all his happmesa terrene ; the gall 
Of all his sweet ; the thorn of every rose 
Of earthly bloom ; cloud of his noon-day sky ; 
Frost of his spring ; sigh of his loudest laugh ; 
Dark spot on every form of loveliness ; 
Rank smell amidst his rarest spiceries ; 
Harsh dissonance of all his harmony ; 
Reserve of every promise, and the if 
Of all to-morrows — now beyond thy vale 
Stood all the ransomed multitude of men. 
Immortal all ; and in their visions saw 
Thy visage grim no more. Great payment day ! 
Of all thou ever conquered, none was left 
In thy unpeopled realms, so populous once. 
He, at whose girdle hangs the keys of death 
And life — not bought but with the blood of Him 
Who wears, the eternal Son of God, that morn 
Dispelled the cloud that sat so long, so thick, 
So heavy o'er thy vale ; opened all thy doors, 
Unopened before, and set thy prisoners free. 
Vain was resistance, and to follow vain. 
In thy unveiled caves, and solitudes 
Of dark and dismal emptiness, thou satt'st, 
Rolling thy hollow eyes : disabled thing ! 
Helpless, despised, unpitied, and unfeared. 
Like some fallen tyrant, chained in sight of all 
The people : from thee dropped thy pointless 

dan ; 
Thy terrors withered all ; thy ministers. 
Annihilated, fell before thy face ; 
And on thy maw eternal hunger seized. 

Nor yet, sad monster ! wast thou left alone. 
In thy dark dens some phantoms still remained — 
Ambition, Vanity, and earthly Fame ; 
Swollen Ostentation, meagre Avarice, 
Mad Superstition, smooth Hypocrisy, 
And Bigotry intolerant, and Fraud, 
And wilful Ignorance, and sullen Pride ; 
Hot Controversy, and the subtile ghost 
Of Vain Philosophy, and worldly Hope, 
And sweet-lipped hollow-hearted Flattery — 
All these, great personages once on earth, 
And not unfollowed, nor unpraised, were left 
Thy ever-unredeemed, and with thee driven 
To Erebus, through whose uncheered wastes. 
Thou mayest chase them, with thy broken scythe 
Fetching vain strokes, to all eternity, 
Unsatisfied, as men who, in the days 
Of Time, their unsubstantial forms pursued. 



BOOK VIII. 



ANALYSIS. 

Description of the world assembled for final 
judgment : all former distinctions equalized ; all 
waiting in expectation ; vice and virtue, good 
and bad, redeemed and unredeemed, were now 
the only distinctions among men. 

An holy radiance shone on all countenances and 
revealed the inward state and feeling, the 
" index of the soul." On the wicked was de- 
picted unutterable despair ; and on the righte- 
ous, "in measure equal to the soul's advance 
in virtue," it became the "lustre of the face." 

Various classes of the assembly are particularized ; 
the man of earthly fame, the mighty reasoner, 
the theorist,*the recluse, the bigoted theologian, 
the indolent, the sceptic, the follower of fashion, 
the duteous wife, the lunatic, the dishonest judge, 
the seducer, the duellist and suicide, the hypo- 
crite, the slanderer, the false priest, the envious 
man. 

The word of God was not properly believed by 
any of the wicked ; the necessary fruit of faith 
being " truth, temperance, meekness, holiness 
and love." 



Reanimated now, and dressed in robes 
Of everlasting wear, in the last pause 
Of expectation, stood the human race ; 
Buoyant in air, or covering shore and sea, 
From east to west, thick as the eared grain 
In golden autumn waved, from field to field, 
Profuse, by Nilus' fertile wave, while yet 
Earth was, and men were in her valleys seen. 

Still all was calm in heaven; nor yet appeared 
The Judge : nor aught appeared, save here and 

there. 
On wing of golden plumage borne at will, 
A curious angel, that from out the skies. 
Now glanced a look on man, and then retired. 
As calm was all on earth : the ministers 
Of God's unsparing vengeance waited, still 
Unhid : no sun, no moon, no star gave light : 
A blest and holy radiance, travelled far 
From day original, fell on the face 
Of men, and every countenance revealed ; 
Unpleasant to the bad, whose visages 
Had lost all guise of seeming happiness. 
With which on earth such pains they took to 

hide 
Their misery in. On their grim features, now 
The plain unvisored index of the soul. 
The true untampered witness of the heart, 
No smile of hope, no look of vanity 
Beseeching for applause, was seen ; no scowl 
Of self-important, all-despising pride. 
That once upon the poor and needy fell. 
Like winter on the unprotected flower. 
Withering their very being to decay. 
No jesting mirth, no wanton leer was seen ; 



728 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



No sullen lower of braggart, fortitude 
Defying pain ; nor anger, nor revenge ; 
But fear instead, and terror and remorse ; 
And chief one passion to its answering shaped 
'The features of the damned, and in itself 
Summed all the rest — unutterable despair. 

What on the righteous shone of foreign light, 
Was all redundant day they needed not. 
For, as by nature, Sin is dark, and loves 
The dark, still hiding from itself in gloom ; 
And in the darkest hell, is still itself 
The darkest hell, and the severest woe, 
Where all is woe : so Virtue, ever fair ! 
Doth by a sympathy as strong as binds 
Two equal hearts, well pleased in wedded love. 
For ever seek the light, for ever seek 
All fair and lovely things, all beauteous forms. 
All images of excellence and truth ; 
And from her own essential being, pure 
As flows the fount of life that spirits drink, 
Doth to herself give light, nor from her beams, 
As native to her as her own existence, 
Can be divorced, nor of her glory shorn, — 
Which now from every feature of the just, 
Divinely rayed ; yet not from all alike : 
In measure equal to the soul's advance 
In virtue, was the lustre of the face. 

It was a strange assembly : none of all 
That congregation vast could recollect 
Aught Kke it in the history of man. 
No badge of outward state was seen ; no mark 
Of age, or rank, or national attire ; 
Or robe professional, or air of trade. 
Untitled stood the man that once was called 
My lord, unserved, unfoUowed ; and the man 
Of tithes, right reverend in the dialect 
Of Time addressed, ungowned, unbeneficed, 
Uncorpulent ; nor now from him, who bore. 
With ceremonious gravity of step, 
And face of borrowed holiness o'erlaid. 
The ponderous book before the awful priest. 
And opened and shut the pulpit's sacred gates 
In style of wonderful observancy, 
And reverence excessive, in the beams 
Of sacerdotal splendour lost, or if 
Observed, comparison ridiculous scarce 
Could save the little, pompous, humble man 
From laughter of the people — not from him 
Could be distinguished then the priest untithed. 
None levees held; those marts where princely 

smiles 
Were sold for flattery, and obeisance mean. 
Unfit from man to man ; none came, or went ; 
None wished to draw attention, none was poor. 
None rich ; none young, none old, deformed none ; 
None sought for place, or favour ; none had aught 
To give, none could receive ; none ruled, none 

served ; 
No king, no subject was ; unscutcheoned all. 
Uncrowned, unplumed, unhelmed, unpedigreed; 
Unlaced, uncoroneted, unbestarred. 
Nor countryman was seen, nor citizen ; 
Republican, nor humble advocate 
Of monarchy ; nor idle worshipper. 
Nor beaded papist, nor Mahometan ; 
Episcopalian none, nor presbyter ; 



Nor Lutheran, nor Calvanist, nor Jew, 
Nor Greek, nor sectary of any name. ^ 

Nor of those persons that loud title bore- 
Most high and mighty, most magnificent ; 
Most potent, most august, most worshipful. 
Most eminent ; words of great pomp, that pleased 
The ear of vanity, and made the worms 
Of earth mistake themselves for gods — coiild one 
Be seen, to claim these phrases obsolete. 

It was a congregation vast of men ; 
Of unappendaged, and unvarnished men; 
Of plain, unceremonious human beings, 
Of all but moral characters bereaved. 
His vice, or virtue now to each remained 
Alone. All else with their grave-clothes men had 
Put off", as badges worn by mortal, not 
Immortal man ; alloy that could not pass 
The scrutiny of Death's refining fires ; 
Dust of Time's wheels, by multitudes pursued 
Of fools that shouted — gold ! fair painted fruit, 
At which the ambitious idiot jumped, while men 
Of wiser mood immortal harvests reaped ; 
Weeds of the human garden, sprung from earth's 
Adulterate soil, unfit to be transplanted. 
Though by the moral botanist too oft 
For plants of heavenly seed mistaken, and nursed ; 
Mere chaff", that Virtue, when she rose from earth 
And waved her wings to gain her native heights, 
Drove from the verge of being, leaving Vice 
No mask to hide her in ; base-born of Time, 
In which God claimed no property, nor had ' 

Prepared for them a place in heaven, or hell. 
Yet did these vain distinctions, now forgot, 
Bulk largely in the filmy eye of Time, 
And were exceeding fair ; and lured to death 
Immortal souls. But they were past; for all 
Ideal now was past ; reality 
Alone remained ; and good and bad, redeemed 
And unredeemed, distinguished sole the sons 
Of men. Each to his proper self reduced, 
And undisguised, was what his seeming showed. 

The man of earthly fame, whom common men 
Made boast of having seen — who scarce could pass 
The ways of Time, for eager crowds that pressed 
To do him homage, and pursued his ear 
With endless praise, for deeds unpraised above, 
And yoked their brutal natures, honoured much 
To drag his chariot on — unnoticed stood. 
With none to praise him, none to flatter there. 

Blushing and dumb, that morning, too, was seen 
The mighty reasoner ; he who deeply searched 
The origin of things, and talked of good 
And evil much, of causes and eflfects, 
Of mind and matter, contradicting all 
That went before him, and himself, the while, 
The laughing-stock of angels ; diving far 
Below his depth, to fetch reluctant proof. 
That he himself was mad and wicked too. 
When proud and ignorant man, he meant to prove, 
That God had made the universe amiss, 
And sketched a better plan. Ah ! foolish sage ! 
He could not trust the word of Heaven, nor see 
The light which from the Bible blazed — that lamp 
Which God threw from his palace down to earth, 
To guide his wandering children home — yet leaned 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



729 



His cautious faith on speculations wild, 

And visionary theories absurd, 

Prodigiously, deliriously absurd, 

Compared with which, the most erroneous flight 

That poet ever took when warm with wine, 

Was moderate conjecturing : — he saw. 

Weighed in the balance of eternity, 

His lore how light, and wished, too late, that he 

Had staid at home, and learned to know himself. 

And done, what peasants did — disputed less. 

And more obeyed. Nor less he grieved his time 

Misspent, the man of curious research, 

Who travelled far through lands of hostile clime, 

And dangerous inhabitant, to fix 

The bounds of empires past, and ascertain 

The burial-place of heroes never born ; 

Despising present things, and future too, 

And groping in the dark unsearchable 

Of finished years : — ^by dreary ruins seen. 

And dungeons damp, and vaults of ancient waste, 

With spade and mattock, delving deep to raise 

Old vases and dismembered idols rude ; 

With matchless perseverance spelling out 

Words without sense. Poor man ! he clapped his 

hands 
Enraptured, when he found a manuscript 
That spoke of pagan gods ; and yet forgot 
The God who made the sea and sky — alas ! 
Forgot that trifling was a sin ; stored much 
Of dubious stuff, but laid no treasure up 
In heaven ; on mouldered columns scratched his 

name. 
But ne'er inscribed it in the book of life. 

Unprofitable seemed, and unapproved. 
That day, the sullen, self- vindictive life 
Of the recluse: with crucifixes hung. 
And spells, and rosaries, and wooden saints, 
Like one of reason reft, he journeyed forth. 
In show of miserable poverty, 
And chose to beg, as if to live on sweat 
Of other men, had promised great reward ; 
On his own flesh inflicted cruel wounds, 
With naked foot embraced the ice, by the hour 
Said mass, and did most grievous penance vile : 
And then retired to drink the filthy cup 
Of secret wickedness, and fabricate 
All lying wonders, by the Untaught received 
For revelations new. Deluded wretch ! 
Did he not know, that the most Holy One 
Required a cheerful life and holy heart ? 

Most disappointed in that crowd of men, 
The man of subtle controversy stood. 
The bigot theologian — ^in minute 
Distinctions skilled, and doctrines unreduced 
To practice ; in debate how loud I how long ! 
How dexterous ! in christian love, how cold ! 
His vain conceits were orthodox alone. 
The immutable and heavenly truth, revealed 
By God, was nought to him : he had an art, 
A kind of hellish charm, that made the lips 
Of truth speak falsehood ; to his liking turned 
The meaning of the text ; made trifles seem 
The inarrow of salvation ; to a word, 
A name, a sect, that sounded in the ear. 
And to the eye so many letters showed. 
But did no more — gave value infinite ; 
92 



Proved still his reasoning best, and his belief. 
Though propped on fancies, wild as madmen's 

dreams. 
Most rational, most scriptural, most sound ; 
With mortal heresy denouncing all 
Who in his arguments could see no force. 
On points of faith too fine for human sight, 
And never understood in heaven, he placed 
His everlasting hope, undoubting placed. 
And died : and when he opened his ear, prepared 
To hear, beyond the grave, the minstrelsy 
Of bliss— he heard, alas ! the wail of woe. 
He proved all creeds false but his own, and found 
At last, his own most false — most false, because 
He spent his time to prove all others so. 

love destroying, cursed Bigotry.! 
Cursed in heaven, but cursed more in hell. 
Where millions curse thee, and must ever curse ! 
Rehgion's most abhorred ! perdition's most 
Forlorn! God's most abandoned! hell's most 

damned ! 
The infidel, who turned his impious war 
Against the walls of Zion, on the rock 
Of ages built, and higher than the clouds, 
Sinned, and received his due reward ; but she 
Within her walls sinned more : of ignorance 
Begot, her daughter. Persecution, walked 
The earth, from age to age, and drank the blood 
Of saints, with horrid relish drank the blood 
Of God's peculiar children — and was drunk; 
And in her drunkenness dreamed of doing good. 
The supplicating hand of mnocence, 
That made the tiger mild, and in his wraih 
The lion pause — the groans of suffering most 
Severe, were nought to her : she laughed at groans; 
No music pleased her more ; and no repast 
So sweet to her as blood of men redeemed 
B y blood of C hrist. Ambition' s self, though mad, 
And nursed on human gore, with her compared 
Was merciful. Nor did she always rage : 
She had some hours of meditation set 
Apart, wherein she to her study went ; 
The Inquisition, model most complete 
Of perfect wickedness, where deeds were done 
Deeds ! let them ne'er be named, — and sat and 

planned 
Deliberately, and with most musing pains. 
How, to extremest thrill of agony. 
The flesh, and blood, and souls of holy men. 
Her victims, might be wrought ; and when she saw 
New tortures of her labouring fancy born. 
She leaped for joy, and made great haste to try 
Their force— well pleased to hear a deeper groan. 



But now her day of mirth was past, and come 
Her day to weep ; her day of bitter groans, 
And sorrow unbemoaned ; the day of grief. 
And wrath retributary poured in full 
On all that took her part. The man of sin, 
The mystery of iniquity, her friend 
Sincere, who pardoned sin, unpardoned still,^ 
And in the name of God blasphemed, and did 
All wicked, all abominable things, 
Most abject stood that day, by devils hissed, 
And by the looks of those he murdered, scorched ; 
And plagued with inward shame that on his cheek 
Burned, while his votaries who left the earth. 



730 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Secure of bliss, around him undeceived 
Stood, undeceivable till then ; and knew, 
Too late, him fallible, themselves accursed, 
And all their passports and certificates 
A lie : nor disappointed more, nor more 
Ashamed, the Mussulman, when he saw gnash 
His teeth and wail, whom he expected Judge. 
All these were damned for bigotry, were damned, 
Because they thought, that they alone served God, 
And served him most, when most they disobeyed. 

Of those forlorn and sad, thou mightst have 
marked 
In number most innumerable stand 
The indolent : too lazy these to make 
Inquiry for themselves, they stuck their faith 
To some weil fatted priest, with offerings bribed 
To bring them oracles of peace, and take 
Into his management all the concerns 
Of their eternity: managed how well 
They knew that day, and might have sooner 

known, 
That the commandment was : Search and believe 
In Me, and not in man ; who leans on him 
Leans on a broken reed that will impierce 
The trusted side. I am the way, the truth, 
The life alone, and there is none besides. 

This did they read, and yet refused to search, 
To search what easily was found, and, found. 
Of price uncountable. Most foolish, they | 



Forbid and unforbid, as impulse urged. 
Or appetite ; nor asked his reason why. 
He said, he followed nature still, but lied ; 
For she was temperate and chaste, he full 
Of wine and all adultery ; her face 
Was holy, most unholy his; her eye 
Was pure, his shot unhallowed fire ; her Hps 
Sang praise to God, his uttered oaths profane ; 
Her breath was sweet, his rank with foul debauch. 
Yet pleaded he a kind and feeling heart, 
Even when he left a neighbour's bed defiled. 
Like migratory fowls that flocking sailed 
From isle to isle, steering by sense alone, 
Whither the clime their liking best beseemed ; 
So he was guided ; so he moved through good 
And evil, right and wrong, but ah ! to fate 
All different : they slept in dust unpained ; 
He rose that day to suffer endless pain. 

Cured of his unbelief, the sceptic stood. 
Who doubted of his being while he breathed ; 
Than whom, glossography itself, that spoke 
Huge folios of nonsense every hour, 
And left, surrounding every page, its marks 
Of prodigal stupidity, scarce more 
Of folly raved. The tyrant too, who sat 
In grisly council, like a spider couched, 
With ministers of locust countenance. 
And made alliances to rob mankind. 
And holy termed — ^for still beneath a name 
Of pious sound the wicked sought to veil 



Thought God with ignorance pleased, and blinded Their crimes— forgetful of his right divine, 



faith / 

That took no root in reason, purified 
With holy influence of his Spirit pure. 
So, on they walked, and stumbled in the light 
Of noon, because they would not open their eyes. 
Effect how sad of sloth I that made them risk 
Their piloting to the eternal shore. 
To one who could mistake the lurid flash 
Of hell for heaven's true star, rather than bow 
The knee, and by one fervent word obtain 
His guidance sure, who calls the stars by name. 
They prayed by proxy, and at second hand 
Believed, and slept, and put repentance off, 
Until the knock of death awoke them, when 
They saw their ignorance both, and him they paid 
To bargain of their souls 'twixt them and God, 
Fled, and began repentance without end. 
How did they wish, that morning, as they stood 
With blushing covered, they had for themselves 
The Scripture searched, had for themselves be- 
lieved. 
And made acquaintance with the Judge ere then ! 
Great day of termination to the joys 
Of sin ! to joys that grew on mortal boughs — 
On trees whose seed fell not from heaven, whose 

top 
Reached not above the clouds. From such alone 
The epicure took all his meals ; in choice • 

Of morsels for the body, nice he was, 
And scrupulous, and knew all wines by smell 
Or taste, and every composition knew 
Of cookery ; but grossly drank, unskilled. 
The cup of spiritual pollution up, 
That sickened his soul to death, while yet his eyes 
Stood out with fat : his feelings were his guide ; 
He ate, and drank, and slept, and took all joys. 



Trembled, and owned oppression was of hell; 
Nor did the uncivil robber, who unpursed 
The traveller on the highway and cut 
His throat, anticipate severer doom. 

In that assembly there was one, who, while 
Beneath the sun, aspired to be a fool : 
In different ages known by different names, 
Not worth repeating here. Be this enough : 
With scrupulous care exact, he walked the rounds 
Of fashionable duty ; laughed when sad ; 
When merry, wept; deceiving, was deceived; 
And flattering, flattered. Fashion was his god. 
Obsequiously he fell before his shrine. 
In slavish plight, and trembled to offend. 
If graveness suited, h6 was grave ; if else, 
He travailed sorely, and made brief repose. 
To work the proper quantity of sin. 
In all submissive to its changing shape. 
Still changing, girded he his vexed frame, 
And laughter made to men of sounder head. 
Most circumspect he was of bows, and nods. 
And salutations; and most seriously 
And deeply meditated he of dress; 
And in his dreams saw lace and ribands fly. 
His soul was nought — he damned it every day 
Unceremoniously. Oh ! fool of fools ! 
Pleased with a painted smile, he fluttered on, 
Like fly of gaudy plume, by fashion driven, 
As faded leaves by Autumn's wind, till Death 
Put forth his hand and drew him out of sight. 
Oh ! fool of fools ! polite to man ; to God 
Most rude : yet had he many rivals, who. 
Age after age, great stiiving made to be 
Ridiculous, and to forget they had 
Immortal souls — that day remembered well. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



731 



As rueful stood his other half, as wan 
Of cheek : small her ambition was — but strange. 
The distaff, needle, all domestic cares, 
Religion, children, husband, home, were things 
She could not bear the thought of; bitter drugs 
That sickened her soul. The house of wanton 

mirth 
And revelry, the mask, the dance, she loved, 
And in their service soul and body spent 
Most cheerfully : a little admiration, 
Or true, or false, no matter which, pleased her, 
And o'er the wreck of fortune lost, and health, 
And peace, and an eternity of bliss 
Lost, made her sweetly smile. She was convinced 
That God had made her greatly out of taste, 
And took much pains to make herself anew. 
Bedaubed with paint, and hung with ornaments 
Of curious selection — gaudy toy ! 
A show unpaid for, paying to be seen ! 
As beggar by the way, most humbly asking 
The alms of public gaze — she went abroad ; 
Folly admired, and indication gave 
Of envy; cold Civility made bows. 
And smoothly flattered ; Wisdom shook his head ; 
And Laughter shaped his lip into a smile ; 
Sobriety did stare ; Forethought grew pale ; 
And Modesty hung down the head and blushed ; 
And Pity wept, as on the frothy surge 
Of fashion tossed, she passed them by, like sail 
Before some devilish blast, and got no time 
To think, and never thought, till on the rock 
She dashed of ruin, anguish, and despair. 

O how unlike this giddy thing in Time ! 
And at the day of judgment how unUke, 
The modest, meek, retiring dame ! Her house 
Was ordered well ; her children taught the way 
Of life — who, rising up in honour, called 
Her blest. Best pleased to be admired at home, 
And hear reflected from her husband's praise, 
Her own, she sought no gaze of foreign eye. 
His praise alone, and faithful love, and trust 
Reposed, was happiness enough for her. 
Yet v/ho that saw her pass, and heard the poor 
With earnest benedictions on her steps 
Attend, could from obeisance keep his eye, 
Or tongue from due applause. In virtue fair 
Adorned with modesty, and matron grace 
Unspeaka/bje, and love — her face was like 
The light, most welcome to the eye of man ; 
Refreshing most, most honoured, most desired 
Of all he saw in the dim world below. 
As Morning when she shed her golden locks, 
And on the dewy top of Hermon walked. 
Or Zion hill — so glorious was her path 
Old men beheld, and did her reverence. 
And bade their daughters look, and take from 

her 
Example of their future life ; the young 
Admired, and new resolve of virtue made. 
And none who was her husband asked ; his air 
Serene, and countenance of joy, the sign 
Of inward satisfaction, as he passed 
The crowd, or sat among the elders, told. 
In holiness complete, and in the robes 
Of saving righteousness, arrayed for heaven, 
How fair, that day, among the fair, she stood ! 
How lovely on the eternal hills her steps ! 



Restored to reason, on that morn appeared 
The lunatic — who raved in chains, and asked 
No mercy when he died. Of lunacy 
Innumerous were the causes: humbled pride, 
Ambition disappointed, riches lost, 
And bodily disease, and sorrow, oft 
By man inflicted on his brother man ; 
Sorrow that made the reason drunk, and yet 
Left much untasted — so the cup was filled : 
Sorrow that Uke an ocean, dark, deep, rough, 
And shoreless, rolled its billows o'er the soul 
Perpetually, and without hope of end. 

Take one example, one of female woe. 
Loved by a father, and a mother's love. 
In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light 
Of heart, so good, and young, that reason scarce 
The eye could credit ; but would doubt, as she 
Did stoop to pull the lily or the rose 
From morning's dew, if it reality 
Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw. 
In imagery of perfect womanhood. 
But short her bloom — her happiness was short. 
One saw her loveliness, and with desire 
Unhallowed burning, to her ear addressed 
Dishonest words : " Her favour was his life, 
His heaven; her frown his woe, his night, his 

death." 
With turgid phrase thus wove in flattery's loom, 
He on her womanish nature won, and age 
Suspicionless, and ruined and forsook: 
For he a chosen villain was at heart. 
And capable of deeds that durst not seek 
Repentance. Soon her father saw her shame ; 
His heart grew stone ; he drove her forth to want 
And wintry winds, and with a horrid curse 
Pursued her ear, forbidding all return. 

Upon a hoary cliff that watched the sea, 
Her babe was found — dead : on its little cheek, 
The tear that nature bade it weep, had turned 
An ice-drop, sparkling in the morning beam ; 
And to the turf its helpless hands were frozen : 
For she — the woful mother, had gone mad, 
And laid it down, regardless of its fate 
And of her own. Yet had she many days 
Of sorrow in the world, but never wept. 
She hved on alms ; and carried in her hand 
Some withered stalks, slie gathered in the spring : 
When any asked the cause, she smiled, and said, 
They were her sisters, and would come and 

watch 
Her grave when she was dead. She never spoke 
Of her deceiver, father, mother, home, 
Or child, or heaven, or hell, or God ; but still 
In lonely places walked, and ever gazed 
Upon the withered stalks, and talked to them ; 
Till, wasted to the shadow of her youth. 
With woe too wide to see beyond — she died : 
Not unatoned for by imputed blood. 
Nor by the Spirit, that mysterious works, 
Unsanctified. Aloud her father cursed 
That day his guilty pride, which would not own 
A daughter, whom the God of heaven and earth 
Was not ashamed to call his own ; and he 
Who ruined her, read from her holy look. 
That pierced him with perdition manifold, 
His sentence; burning with vindictive firf; 



733 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



The judge that took a bribe ; he who amiss 
Pleaded the widow's cause, and by delay 
Delaying ever, made the law at night 
More intricate than at the dawn, and on 
The morrow farther from a close, than when 
The sun last set, till he who in the suit 
Was poorest, by his emptied coffers, proved 
His cause the worst ; and he that had the bag 
Of weights deceitful, and the balance false ; 
And he that with a fraudful hp deceived 
In buying or in selling : — these, that morn, 
Found custom no excuse for sin, and knew 
Plain dealing was a virtue, but too late. 
And he that was supposed to do nor good 
Nor ill, surprised, could find no neutral ground ; 
And learned, that to do nothing was to serve 
The devil, and transgress the laws of God. 
The noisy quack, that by profession lied. 
And uttered falsehoods of enormous size, 
With countenance as grave as truth beseemed ; 
And he that lied for pleasure, whom a lust 
Of being heard, and making people stare, 
And a most steadfast hate of silence, drove 
Far wide of sacred truth, who never took 
The pains to think of what he was to say, 
But still made haste to speak, with weary tongue. 
Like copious stream for ever flowing on — 
Read clearly in the lettered heavens what long 
Before they might have read : For every word 
Of folly you this day shall give account ; 
And every liar shall his portion have 
Among the cursed, without the gates of life. 

With groans that made no pause, lamenting 
there 
Were seen the duellist, and suicide : 
This thought, but thought amiss, that of himself 
He was entire proprietor ; and so. 
When he was tired of time, with his own hand, 
He opened the portals of eternity, 
And sooner than the devils hoped, arrived 
In hell. The other, of resentment quick, 
And, for a word, a look, a gesture, deemed 
Not scrupulously exact in all respect, 
Prompt to revenge, went to the cited field. 
For double murder armed — his own, and his 
That as himself he was ordained to love. 
The first in pagan-books of early times. 
Was heroism pronounced, and greatly praised, 
In fashion's glossary of latter days. 
The last was honour called, and spirit high. 
Alas! 'twas mortal spirit ; honour which 
Forgot to wake at the last trumpet's voice. 
Bearing the signature of time alone, 
Uncurrent in eternity, and base. 
Wise men suspected this before ; for they 
Could never understand what honour meant ; 
Or why that should be honour termed which made 
Man murder man, and broke the laws of God 
Most wantonly. Sometimes, indeed, the grave, 
And those of christian creed imagined, spoke 
Admiringly of honour, lauding much 
The noble youth, who, after many rounds 
Of boxing, died : or to the pistol shot, 
His breast exposed, his soul to endless pain. 
But they who most admired, and understood 
This honour best, and on its altar laid 
Their lives, most obviously were fools : and what 



Fools only, and the wicked, understood — 
The wise agreed, was some delusive Shade, 
That with the mist of time should disappear. 

Great day of revelation ! in the grave 
The hypocrite had left his mask, and stood 
In naked ughness. He was a man 
Who stole the livery of the court of heaven, 
To serve the devil in ; in virtue's guise 
Devoured the widow's house and orphan's bread ; 
In holy phrase transacted villanies 
That common sinners durst not meddle with. 
At sacred feast, he sat among the saints. 
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things. 
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed 
More deeply, or with graver countenance, 
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man. 
Whose infant children, at the moment, he 
Planned how to rob : in sermon style he bought. 
And sold, and lied ; and salutations made 
In scripture terms : he prayed by quantity, 
And with his repetitions long and loud, 
All knees were weary ; with one hand he put 
A penny in the urn of poverty, 
And with the other took a shilling out. 
On charitable lists — those trumps which told 
The public ear, who had in secret done 
The poor a benefit, and half the alms 
They told of, took themselves to keep them sound- 
ing- 
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there 
Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man '. 
A serpent with an angel's voice ! a grave 
With flowers bestrewed ! and yet few were de- 
ceived. 
His virtues being over-done, his face 
Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities 
Too pompously attended, and his speech 
Larded too frequently, and out of time 
With serious phraseology — were rents 
That in his garments opened in spite of him, 
Through which the well accustomed eye could see 
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blushed, 
As in the all-piercing light he stood exposed, 
No longer herding with the holy ones : 
Yet still he tried to bring his countenance 
To sanctimonious seeming ; but, meanwhile, 
The shame within, now visible to all, 
His purpose baulked : — the righteous smiled, and 

even 
Despair itself some signs of laughter gave. 
As ineffectually he strove to wipe 
His brow, that inward guiltiness defiled. 
Detected wretch ! of all the reprobate. 
None seemed maturer for the flames of hell ; 
Where still his face, from ancient custom, wears 
A holy air, which says to all that pass 
Him by : I was a hypocrite on earth. 

That was the hour which measured out to 
each. 
Impartially, his share of reputation ! 
Correcting all mistakes, and from the name 
Of the good man, all slanders wiping off. 
Good name was dear to all : without it, none 
Could soundly sleep even on a royal bed ; 
Or drink with reUsh from a cup of gold: 
And with it, on his borrowed straw, or by 



THE COURSE OF TIME, 



733 



The leafless hedge, beneath the open heavens, 
The weary beggar took untroubled rest. 
It was a music of most heavenly tone, 
To which the heart leaped joyfully, and all 
The spirits danced: for honest fame, men laid 
Their heads upon the block, and while the axe 
Descended, looked and smiled. It was of price 
Invaluable — riches, health, repose, 
Whole kingdoms, hfe, were given for it, and he 
Who got it was the winner still ; and he 
Who sold it, durst not open his ear, nor look 
On human face, he knew himself so vile. 
Yet it, with all its preciousness, was due 
To virtue, and around her should have shed, 
Unasked, its savoury smell ; but Vice, deformed 
Itself, and ugly, and of flavour rank. 
To rob fair Virtue of so sweet an incense. 
And with it to anoint and salve its own 
Rotten ulcers, and perfume the path that led 
To death, strove daily by a thousand means; 
And oft succeeded to make Virtue sour 
In the world's nostrils, and its loathly self 
Smell sweetly. Rumour was the messenger 
Of defamation — and so swift that none 
Could be the first to tell an evil tale ; 
And was withal so infamous for hes, 
That he who of her sayings on his creed 
The fewest entered, was deemed wisest man. 
The fool, and many who had credit too 
For wisdom, grossly swallowed all she said 
Unsifted ; and although at every word 
They heard her contradict herself, and saw 
Hourly they were imposed upon, and mocked, 
Yet still they ran to hear her speak, and stared, 
And wondered much, and stood aghast, and said — 
It could not be ; and while they blushed for shame 
At their own faith} and seemed to doubt — be- 
lieved. 
And whom they met, with many sanctions, told. 
So did experience fail to teach ; so hard 
It was to learn this simple truth, confirmed 
At every corner by a thousand proofs — 
That common fame most impudently lied. 

*Twas Slander filled her mouth with lying 

words ; 
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin : the man 
In whom this spirit entered was undone. 
His tongue was set on fire of hell; his heart 
Was black as death ; his legs were faint with 

haste 
To propagate the lie his soul had framed ; 
His pillow was the peace of families 
Destroyed, the sigh of innocence reproached, 
Broken friendships-, and the strife of brotherhoods: 
Yet did he spare his sleep, and hear the clock 
Number the midnight watches, on his bed 
Devising mischief more : and early rose. 
And made most hellish meals of good men's 



From door to door you might have seen him 



Or placed amidst a group of gaping fools, 
And whispering in their ears, with his foul lips. 
Peace fled the neighbourhood in which he made 
His haunts : and hke a moral pestilence. 
Before his breath the healthy shoots, and blooms 



Of social joy, and happiness, decayed. 

Fools only in his company were seen. 

And those forsaken of God, and to themselves 

Given up : the prudent shunned him, and his 

house. 
As one who had a deadly moral plague. 
And fain would all have shunned him at the day 
Of judgment ; but in vain. All who gave ear 
With greediness, or wittingly their tongues 
Made herald to his lies, around him wailed ; 
While on his face, thrown back by injured men, 
In characters of ever-blushing shame, 
Appeared ten thousand slanders, all his own. 

. Among the accursed, who sought a hiding- 
place 
In vain, from fierceness of Jehovah's rage, 
And from the hot displeasure of the Lamb,' 
Most wretched, most contemptible, most vile. 
Stood the false priest, and in his conscience felt 
The fellesl gnaw of the undying Worm. 
And so he might, for he had on his hands 
The blood of souls, that would not wipe away. 
Hear what he was : — He swore in sight of God, 
And man, to preach his master, Jesus Christ ; 
Yet preached himself: he swore that love of souls 
Alone, had drawn him to the church ; yet strewed 
The path that led to hell with tempting flowers, 
And in the ear of sinners, as they took 
The way of death, he whispered peace : he swore 
Away all love of lucre, all desire 
Of earthly pomp, and yet a princely seat 
He liked, and to the chnk of Mammon's box 
Gave most rapacious ear : his prophecies, 
He swore, were from the Lord; and yet taught 

lies 
For gain ; with quackish ointment healed the 

wounds 
And bruises of the soul outside, but left 
Within the pestilent matter, unobserved, 
To sap the moral constitution quite. 
And soon to burst again, incurable. 
He with untempered mortar daubed the walls 
Of Zion, saying. Peace, when there was none. 
The man who came with thirsty soul to hear 
Of Jesus, went away unsatisfied : 
For he another gospel preached than Paul, 
And one that had no Saviour in't. And yet 
His hfe was worse. Faith, charity, and love. 
Humility, forgiveness, hohness. 
Were words well lettered in his sabbath creed ; 
But with his life he wrote as plain — revenge, 
Pride, tyranny, and lust of wealth and power 
Inordinate, lewdness unashamed. 
He was a wolf in clothing of the lamb. 
That stole into the fold of God, and on 
The blood of souls which he did sell to death, 
Grew fat : and yet when any would have turned 
Him out, he cried : — Touch not the priest of God. 
And that he was anointed, fools believed : 
But knew that day, he was the devil's priest: 
Anointed by the hands of Sin and Death, 
And set peculiarly apart to ill, — 
While on him smoked the vials of perdition 
Poured measureless. Ah me ! what cursing then 
Was heaped upon his head by ruined souls. 
That charged him with their murder, as he stood 
With eye of all the unredeemed, most sad. 



734 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



Waiting the coming of the Son of Man ! 

But let me pause, for thou hast seen his place, 

And punishment, beyond the sphere of love. 

Much was removed that tempted once to sin. 
Avarice no gold, no -wine the drunkard saw : 
But Envy had enough, as heretofore, 
To fill his heart with gall and bitterness. 
What made the man of envy what he was, 
Was worth in others, vileness in himself; 
A lust of praise, with undeserving deeds, 
And conscious poverty of soul : and still 
It was his earnest work and daily toil 
With lying tongue, to make the noble seem 
Mean as himself. On fame's high hill he saw 
The laurel spread its everlasting green, 
And wished to climb : but felt his knees too 

weak : 
And stood below, unhappy, laying hands 
Upon the strong, ascending gloriously 
The steps of honour, bent to draw them back ; 
Involving oft the brightness of their path 
In mists his breath had raised. Whene'er he heard, 
As oft he did, of joy and happiness. 
And great prosperity, and rising worth, 
'Twas like a wave of wormwood o'er his soul 
Rolling its bitterness. His joy was woe : 
The woe of others : when, from wealth to want, 
From praises to reproach, from peace to strife, 
From mirth to tears, he saw a brother fall. 
Or virtue make a slip — his dreams were sweet. 
But chief with slander, daughter of his own, 
He took unhallowed pleasure : when she talked, 
And with her filthy lips defiled the best. 
His ear drew near ; with wide attention gaped 
His mouth ; his eye, well pleased, as eager gazed 
As glutton, when the dish he most desired 
Was placed before him; and a horrid mirth, 
At intervals, with laughter shook his sides. 
The critic, too, who, for a bit of bread, 
In book that fell aside before the ink 
Was dry, poured forth excessive nonsense, gave 
Him much delight. The critics — some, but few, 
Were worthy men : and earned renown which had 
Immortal roots : but most were weak and vile : 
And as a cloudy swarm of summer flies, 
With angry hum and slender lance, beset 
The sides of some huge animal ; so did 
They buzz about the illustrious man, and fain 
With his immortal honour, down the stream 
Of fame would have descended ; but alas ! 
The hand of Time drove them away : they were, 
Indeed, a simple race of men, who had 
One only art, which taught them still to say — 
Whate'er was done, might have been better 

done : 
And with this art, not ill to learn, they made 
A shift to live : but sometimes too, beneath 
The dust they raised, was worth awhile obscured ; 
And then did Envy prophesy and laugh. 
O Envy ! hide thy bosom ! hide it deep : 
A thousand snakes, with black envenomed mouths 
Nest there, and hiss, and feed through all thy 

heart ! 

Such one I saw, here interposing, said 
The new arrived, in that dark den of shame, 
Whom, who hath seen shall never wish to see 



Again : before him, in the infernal gloom. 
That omnipresent shape of Virtue stood, 
On which he ever threw his eye ; and like 
A cinder that had life and feeling, seemed 
His face, with inward pining, to be what 
He could not be. As being that had burned 
Continually in slow consuming fire, 
Half an eternity, and was to burn 
For evermore, he looked. Oh ! sight to be 
Forgotten ! thought too horrible to think ! 

But say, believing in such woe to come, 
Such dreadful certainty of endless pain, 
Could beings of forecasting mould, as thou. 
Entitlest men, deliberately walk on, 
Unscared, and overleap their own belief 
Into the lake of ever burning fire ? 

Thy tone of asking seems to make reply, 
And rightly seems ; They did not so believe. 
Not one of all thou saw'st lament and wail 
In Tophet, perfectly believed the word 
Of God, else none had thither gone. Absurd, 
To think that beings made with reason, formed 
To calculate, compare, choose, and reject, 
By nature taught, and self, and every sense, 
To choose the good and pass the evil by. 
Could, with full credence of a time to come, 
When all the wicked should be really damned, 
And cast beyond the sphere of light and love, 
Have persevered in sin ! Too foolish this 
For folly in its prime. Can aught that thinks, 
And wills, choose certain evil and reject 
Good, in his heart believing he does so ? 
Could man choose pain, instead of endless joyt 
Mad supposition, though maintained by some 
Of honest mind. Behold a man condemned ! 
Either he ne'er inquired, and therefore he 
Could not believe ; or else he carelessly 
Inquired, and something other than the word 
Of God received into his cheated faith. 
And therefore he did not beheve, but down 
To hell descended, leaning on a He. 
Faith was bewildered much by men who meant 
To make it clear — so simple in itself; 
A thought so rudimental and so plain, 
That none by comment could it plainer make. 
All faith was one : in object, not in kind 
The diflference lay. I'he faith that saved a soul, 
And that which in the common truth believed, 
In essence were the same. Hear then, what faith. 
True, Christian faith, which brought salvation, 

was : — 
Belief in all that God revealed to men : 
Observe — in all that God revealed to men ; 
In all he promised, threatened, commanded, said. 
Without exception, and without a doubt. 
Who thus believed, being by the Spirit touched. 
As naturally the fruits of faith produced — 
Truth, temperance, meekness, holiness, and 

love — 
As human eye from darkness sought the light. 
How could he else ? If he who had firm faith 
The morrow's sun should rise, ordered affairs 
Accordingly ; if he who had firm faith 
That spring, and summer, and autumnal days 
Should pass away, and winter really come, 
Prepared accordingly; if he who saw 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



735 



A bolt of dealh approaching, turned aside 
And let it pass ; as surely did the man 
Who verily believed the word of God, 
Though erring whiles, its general laws obey, 
Turn back from hell, and take the way to 
heaven. 

That faith was necessary, some alleged, 
Unreined and uncontrollable by will. 
Invention savouring much of hell ! Indeed, 
It was the master-stroke of wickedness. 
Last effort of Abaddon's council dark, 
To make man think himself a slave to fate, 
And worst of all, a slave to fate in faith. 
For thus 'twas reasoned then : — From faith alone. 
And from opinion, springs all action : hence, 
If faith's compelled, so is all action too : 
But deeds compelled are not accountable ; 
So man is not amenable to God. 

Arguing that brought such monstrous birth, 

though good 
It seemed, must have been false : most false it 

was. 
And by the book of God condemned throughout. 
We freely own that truth, when set before 
The mind, with perfect evidence, compelled 
Belief: but error lacked such witness still. 
And none, who now lament in moral night, 
The word of God refused on evidence 
That might not have been set aside, as false. 
To reason, try, choose and reject, was free : 
Hence God, by faith, acquitted, or condemned ; 
Hence righteous men, with hberty of will 
Believed ; and hence thou saw'st in Erebus, 
The wicked, who as freely disbelieved 
What else had led them to the land of hfe. 



BOOK IX. 



ANALYSIS. 

An apostrophe to Religion, Virtue, Piety, or love 
of Holiness. 

Description of several classes of the redeemed. 
The faithful minister, the true philosopher, the 
righteous governor, the uncorrupted statesman, 
the brave general, the man of active benevolence 
and charity, the Christian bard. And the most 
numerous among the saved were such, who on 
earth were eclipsed by lowly circumstances, 
many of whom were seen "highest and first in 
honour." 

Suddenly an innumerous host of angels, headed by 
Michael and Gabriel, descended from heaven, 
silently and without song, and hfting mankind 
into mid air, parted the good and bad ; to the 
right and left, the good to weep no more, and 
the bad never to smile again ; the righteous 
placed "beneath a crown of rosy light," and 
the wicked were driven and bound under a cloud 
of darkness, where stood also Satan and his le- 
gion, awaiting the judgment and punishment 
due to their rebellion. 



Fairest of those that left the calm of heaven 
And ventured down to man, with words of peace 
Daughter of Grace ! known by whatever name, 
ReUgion ! Virtue ! Piety ! or Love 
Of Holiness ! the day of thy reward 
Was come. Ah ! thou wast long despised : de- 
spised 
By those thou wooedst from death to endless life. 
Modest and meek, in garments white as those 
That seraphs wear, and countenance as mild 
As Mercy looking on- Repentance' tear. 
With eye of purity, now darted up 
To God's eternal throne, now humbly bent 
Upon thyself, and weeping down thy cheek 
That glowed with universal love immense, 
A tear, pure as the dews that fall in heaven ; 
In thy left hand, the olive branch, and in 
Thy right, the crown of immortality — 
With noiseless foot, thou walkedst the vales of 

earth. 
Beseeching men from age to age, to turn 
From utter death — to turn from woe to bliss ; 
Beseeching evermore, and evermore 
Despised — not evermore despised, not now, 
Not at the day of doom : most lovely then, 
Most honourable thou appeared, and most 
To be desired. The guilty heard the song 
Of thy redeemed, how loud ! and saw thy face, 
How fair ! — Alas ! it was too late ! the hour 
Of making friends was past ; thy favour then 
Might not be sought : but recollection, sad 
And accurate, as miser counting o'er 
And o'er again the sum he must lay out. 
Distinctly in the wicked's ear rehearsed 
Each opportunity despised and lost ; 
While on them gleamed thy holy look, that like 
A fiery torrent went into their souls. 
The day of thy reward was come — the day 
Of great remuneration to thy friends ; 
To those, known by whatever name, who sought, 
In every place, in every time, to do 
Unfeignedly their Maker's will, revealed. 
Or gathered else from nature's school; well 

pleased 
With God's applause alone, that, like a stream 
Of sweetest melody, at still of night 
By wanderer heard, in their most secret ear, 
For ever whispered. Peace ; and as a string 
Of kindred tone awoke, their inmost soul. 
Responsive, answered. Peace; inquiring still 
And searching, night and day, to know their 

duty — 
When known, with undisputing trust, with love 
Unquenchable, with zeal, by reason's lamp 
Inflamed — performing ; and to Him, by whose 
Profound, all -calculating skill alone. 
Results — results even of the slightest act. 
Are fully grasped, with unsuspicious faith. 
All consequences leaving ; to abound 
Or want alike prepared ; who knew to be 
Exalted how, and how to be abased ; 
How best to hve, and how to die when asked. 
Their prayers sincere, their alms in secret done. 
Their fightings with themselves, their abstinence 
From pleasure, though by mortal eye unseen, 
Their hearts of resignation to the will 
Of Heaven, their patient bearing of reproach 
And shame, their charity, and faith, and hope, 



736 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Thou didst remember, and in full repaid. 

No bankrupt thou, who at the bargained hour 

Of payment due, sent to his creditors 

A tale of losses and mischances long. 

Insured by God himself, and from the stores 

And treasures of his wealth at will supplied, 

Religion ! thou alone, of all that men. 

On Earth, gave credit, to be reimbursed 

On the other side the grave, didst keep thy word, 

Thy day, and all thy promises fulfilled. 

As in the mind, rich with unborrowed wealth, 
Where multitudes of thoughts for utterance strive, 
And all so fair, that each seems worthy first 
To enter on the tongue, and from the lips 
Have passage forth, — selection hesitates. 
Perplexed, and loses time ; anxious, since all 
Cannot be taken, to take the best ; and yet 
Afraid, lest what be left be worthier still ; 
And grieving much, where all so goodly look, 
To leave rejected one, or in the rear 
Let any be obsfeured : so did the bard, 
Though not unskilled, as on that multitude 
Of men, who once awoke to judgment, he 
Threw back reflection, hesitating, pause. 
For as his harp, in tone severe, had sung 
What figure the most famous sinners made, 
When from the grave they rose unmasked ; so 

did 
He wish to character the good : but yet 
Among so many, glorious all, all worth 
Immortal fame, with whom begin, with whom 
To end, was difficult to choose ; and long 
His auditors, upon the tiptoe raised 
Of expectation, might have kept, had not 
His eye — for so it is in heaven, that what 
Is needed always is at hand — beheld, 
That moment, on a mountain near the throne 
Of God, the most renowned of the redeemed 
Rejoichig ; nor who first, who most to praise. 
Debated more ; but thus, with sweeter note. 
Well pleased to sing, with highest eulogy, 
And first, whom God applauded most, — began. 

With patient ear, thou now hast heard — though 
whiles 
Aside digressing, ancient feeling turned 
My lyre, — what shame the wicked had that day ; 
What wailing, what remorse : so hear in brief, 
How bold the righteous stood — the men re- 
deemed ! 
How fair in virtue ! and in hope how glad ! 
And first among the holy shone, as best 
Became, the faithful minister of God. 

See where he walks on yonder mount, that lifts 
Its summit high, on the right hand of bliss ! 
Sublime in glory ! talking with his peers 
Of the Incarnate Saviour's love, and past 
Affliction, lost in present joy ! See how 
His face with heavenly ardour glows ! and how 
V His hand, enraptured, strikes the golden lyre ! 
As now conversing of the Lamb once slain, 
He speaks ; and now, from vines that never hear 
Of winter, but in monthly harvest yield 
Their fruit abundantly, he plucks the grapes 
Of life ! but what he was on earth it most 
Behoves to say : — Elect by God himself; 



Anointed by the Holy Ghost, and set 

Apart to the great work of saving men ; 

Instructed fully in the will divine ; 

Supplied with grace in store, as need might ask,* 

And with the stamp and signature of heaven. 

Truth, mercy, patience, holiness and love, 

Accredited ; — he was a man by God, 

The Lord, commissioned to make known to men, 

The eternal counsels ; in his Master's name, 

To treat with them of everlasting things ; 

Of life, death, bhss, and woe : to offer terms 

Of pardon, grace, and peace, to the rebelled; 

To teach the ignorant soul ; to cheer the sad ; 

To bind, to loose with all authority ; 

To give the feeble strength, the hopeless hope 5 

To help the halting, and to lead the blind : 

To warn the careless ; heal the sick of heart ; 

Arouse the indolent ; and on the proud 

And obstinate offender, to denounce 

The wrath of God. All other men, what name 

Soe'er they bore, whatever office held. 

If lawful held — the magistrate supreme. 

Or else subordinate, were chosen by men, 

Their fellows, and from men derived their power, 

And were accountable for all they did 

To men ; but he alone his office held 

Immediately from God, from God received 

Authority, and was to none but God 

Amenable. The elders of the church. 

Indeed, upon him laid their hands, and set 

Him visibly apart to preach the word 

0/f life ; but this was merely outward rite, 

And decent ceremonial, performed 

On all alike ; and oft, as thou hast heard, 

Performed on those, God never sent : his call, 

His consecration, his anointing, all 

Were inward ; in the conscience heard and felt. 

Thus by Jehovah chosen and ordained, 

To take into his charge the souls of men ; 

And for his trust to answer at the day 

Of judgment — great plenipotent of heaven, 

And representative of God on earth — 

Fearless of men and devils ; unabashed 

By sin enthroned, or mockery of a prince ; 

Unawed by armed legions ; unseduced 

By offered bribes ; burning with love to souls 

Unquenchable, and mindful still of his 

Great charge and vast responsibility, 

High in the temple of the living God 

He stood, amidst the people, and declared 

Aloud the truth, the whole revealed truth. 

Ready to seal it with his blood. Divine 

Resemblance most complete ! with mercy now, 

And love, his face, illumed, shone gloriously; 

And frowning now indignantly, it seemed 

As if offended Justice, from his eye. 

Streamed forth vindictive wrath ! Men heard 

alarmed : 
The uncircumcised infidel believed ; 
Light thoughted Mirth grew serious and wept ; 
The laugh profane sunk in a sigh of deep 
Repentance ; the blasphemer, kneeling, prayed, 
And, prostrate in the dust, for mercy called ; 
And cursed old forsaken sinners gnashed 
Their teeth, as if their hour had been arrived. 
Such were his calling, his commission such : 
Yet he was humble, kind, forgiving, meek, 
Easy to be entreated, gracious, mild ; 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



737 



And with all patience and affection, taught, 
Rebuked, persuaded, solaced, counselled, warned, 
In fervent style and manner. Needy, poor. 
And dying men, like music, heard his feet 
Approach their beds ; and guilty wretches took 
New hope, and in his prayers wept and smiled. 
And blessed him, as they died forgiven ; and all 
Saw in his face contentment, in his life, 
The path to glory and perpetual joy. 
Deep learned in the philosophy of heaven, 
He searched the causes out of good and ill, 
Profoundly calculating their effects 
Far past the bounds of time ; and balancing, 
In the arithmetic of future things, 
The loss and profit of the soul to all 
Eternity. A skilful workman he. 
In God's great moral vineyard ; what to prune 
With cautious hand, he knew ; what to uproot ; 
What were mere weeds, and what celestial plants, 
Which had unfading vigour in them, knew : 
Nor knew alone ; but watched them night and 

day, 
And reared and nourished them, till fit to be 
Transplanted to the Paradise above. 

O ! who can speak his praise I great, humble 
man ! 
He in the current of destruction stood, 
And warned the sinner of his woe ; led on 
Immanuel's armies in the evil day ; 
And with the everlasting arms, embraced 
Himself around, stood in the dreadful front 
Of battle, high, and warred victoriously 
With death and hell. And now was come his rest. 
His triumph day : illustrious like a sun, 
In that assembly, he, shining from far, 
Most excellent in glory, stood assured. 
Waiting the promised crown, the promised throne, 
The welcome and approval of his Lord. 
Nor one alon^., but many — prophets, priests 
Apostles, great reformers, all that served 
Messiah faithfully, like stars appeared, 
Of fairest beam ; and round them gathered, clad 
In white, the vouchers of their ministry — 
The flock their care had nourished, fed, and saved. 

Nor yet in common glory, blazing, stood 
The true philosopher, decided friend 
Of truth and man ; determined foe of all 
Deception, — calm, collected, patient, wise, 
And humble ; undeceived by outward shape 
Of things ; by fashion's revelry uncharmed ; 
By honour unbe witched ; — he left the chase 
Of vanity, and all the quackeries 
Of life, to fools and heroes, or whoe'er 
Desired them ; and with reason, much despised, 
Traduced, yet heavenly reason, to the shade 
Retired — retired, but not to dream, or build 
Of ghostly fancies, seen in the deep noon 
Of sleep, ill balanced theories ; retired. 
But did not leave mankind ; in pity, not 
In wrath, retired; and still, though distant, kept 
His eye on men ; at proper angle took 
His stand to see them better, and beyond 
The clamour which the bells of folly made. 
That most had hung about them, to consult 
With nature, how their madness might be cured. 
And how their true substantial comforts might 
93 



Be multiphed. Religious man ! what God 
By prophets, priests, evangelists, revealed 
Of sacred truth, he thankfully received. 
And, by its light directed, went in search 
Of more : before him, darkness fled : and all 
The goblin tribe, that hung upon the breasts 
Of night, and haunted still the moral gloom, — 
With shapeless forms, and blue infernal lights, 
And indistinct and deviUsh whisperings, 
That the miseducated fancies vexed 
Of superstitious men, — at his approach, 
Dispersed invisible. Where'er he went, 
This lesson still he taught ; To fear no ill 
But sin, no being but Almighty God. 
All-comprehending sage ! too hard alone 
For him was man's salvation ; all besides. 
Of use or comfort, that distinction made 
Between the desperate savage, scarcely raised 
Above the beast whose flesh he ate undressed, 
And the most polished of the human race. 
Was product of his persevering search. 
Religion owed him much, as from the false 
She suffered much ; for still his main design, 
In all his contemplations, was to trace 
The wisdom, providence, and love of God, 
And to his fellows, less observant, show 
Them forth. From prejudice redeemed, with 

all 
His passions still, above the common world. 
Sublime in reason, and in aim sublime. 
He sat, and on the marvellous works of God, 
Sedately thought : now glancing up his eye 
Intelligent, through all the starry dance ; 
And penetrating now the deep remote 
Of central causes, in the womb opaque 
Of matter hid ; now, with inspection nice, 
Entering the mystic labyrinths of the mind, 
Where thought, of notice ever shy, behind 
Thought disappearing, still retired; and still, 
Thought meeting thought, and thought awaken- 
ing thought. 
And mingling still with thought, in endless 

maze, — 
Bewildered observation : now with eye. 
Yet more severely purged, looking far down 
Into the heart, where Passion wove a web 
Of thousand thousand threads, in grain and hue 
All different ; then, upward venturing whiles, 
But reverently, and in his hand, the light 
Revealed, near the eternal throne, he gazed, 
Philosophizing less than worshipping. 
Most truly great ! his intellectual strength, 
And knowledge vast, to men of lesser mind 
Seemed infinite ; yet from his high pursuits. 
And reasonings most profound, he still returned 
Home, with an humbler and a warmer heart. 
And none so lowly bowed before his God, 
As none so well His awful majesty 
And goodness comprehended ; or so well 
His own dependency and weakness knew. 

How glorious now ! with vision purified 
At the Essential Truth, entirely free 
From error, he, investigating still — 
For knowledge is not found, unsought, in hea- 
ven, — 
From world to world at pleasure roves, on wing 
Of golden ray upborne; or, at the feet 



738 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



Of heaven's most ancient sages, sitting, hears 
New wonders of the wondrous works of God. 

Illustrious too, that morning, stood the man 
Exalted by the people, to the throne 
Of government, established on the base 
Of justice, liberty, and equal right: 
Who, in his countenance sublime, expressed 
A nation's majesty, and yet was meek 
And humble ; and in royal palace gave 
Example to the meanest, of the fear 
Of God, and all integrity of life 
And manners; who, august, yet lowly; who, 
Severe, yet gracious ; in his very heart 
Detesting all oppression, all intent 
Of private aggrandizement : and the first 
In every public duty, — held the scales 
Of justice, and as the law, which reigned in him, 
Commanded, gave rewards ; or with the edge 
Vindictive, smote, — now light, now heavily. 
According to the stature of the crime. 
Conspicuous, like an oak of healthiest bough, 
Deep rooted in his country's love, he stood 
And gave his hand to Virtue, helping up 
The honest man to honour and renown ; 
And with the look which goodness wears in wrath. 
Withering the very blood of Knavery, 
And from his presence driving far, ashamed. 

Nor less remarkable, among the blest, 
Appeared the man, who, in the senate-house, 
Watchful, unhired, unbribed, and uncorrupt, 
And party only to the common weal. 
In virtue's awful rage, pleaded for right. 
With truth so clear, with argument so strong. 
With action so sincere, and tone so loud 
And deep, as made the despot quake behind 
His adamantine gates, and every joint 
In terror smite his fellow-joint relaxed ; 
Or, marching to the field, in burnished steel, 
While, fiowning on his brow, tremendous hung 
The wrath of a whole people, long provoked,— 
Mustered the stormy wings of war, in day 
Of dreadful deeds ; and led the battle on, 
When liberty, swift as the fires of heaven. 
In fury rode, with all her hosts, and threw 
The tyrant down ; or drove invasion back. 
Illustrious he — illustrious all appeared. 
Who ruled supreme in righteousness ; or held 
Inferior place, in steadfast rectitude 
Of soul. Peculiarly severe had been 
The nurture of their youth ; their knowledge 

great ; 
Great was their wisdom ; great their cares, and 

great 
Their self-denial, and their service done 
To God and man ; and great was their reward 
At hand, proportioned to their worthy deeds. 

Breathe all thy minstrelsy, immortal harp ! 
Breathe numbers warm with love, while I re- 
hearse — 
Dehghtful theme ! resembling the songs 
Which, day and night, are sung before the 

Lamb ! — 
Thy praise, O Charity ! thy labours most 
Divine ; thy sympathy with sighs, and tears. 
And groans ; thy great, thy god-like wish to heal 



All misery, all fortune's wounds ; and make 

The soul of every living thing rejoice. 

O thou wast needed much in days of time ! 

No virtue, half so much; none half so fair : 

To all the rest, however fine, thou gavest 

A finishing and polish, without which 

No man e'er entered heaven. Let me record 

His praise, — the man of great benevolence. 

Who pressed thee closely to his glowing heart, 

And to thy gentle bidding made his feet 

Swift minister. — Of all mankind, his soul 

Was most in harmony with heaven : as one 

Sole family of brothers, sisters, friends ; 

One in their origin, one in their rights 

To all the common gifts of providence, 

And in their hopes, their joys, and sorrows one. 

He viewed the universal human race. 

He needed not a law of state, to force 

Grudging submission to the law of God ; 

The law of love was in his heart, alive : 

What he possessed, he counted not his own. 

But Hke a faithful steward, in a house 

Of public alms, what freely he received, 

He freely gave ; distributing to all 

The helpless, the last mite beyond his own 

Temperate support, and reckoning still the gift 

But justice, due to want ; and so it was ; 

Although the world, with compliment not ill 

Applied, adorned it with a fairer name. 

Nor did he wait till to his door the voice 

Of supphcation came, but went abroad. 

With foot as silent as the starry dews, 

In search of misery that pined unseen, 

And would not ask. And who can tell what 

sights 
He saw ! what groans he heard in that cold world 
Below ! where Sin, in league with gloomy Death, 
Marched daily through the length and breadth of 

all 
The land, wasting at will, and making earth, 
Fair earth ! a lazar-house, a dungeon dark, 
Where Disappointment fed on ruined Hope : 
Where Guilt, worn out, leaned on the triple edge 
Of want, remorse, despair; where Cruelty 
Reached forth a cup of wormwood to the lips 
Of Sorrow, that to deeper Sorrow wailed ; 
Where Mockery, and Disease, and Poverty, 
Met miserable Age, erewhile sore bent 
With his own burden ; while the arrowy winds 
Of winter pierced the naked orphan babe, 
And chilled the mother's heart, who had no home ; 
And where, alas ! in mid-time of his day. 
The honest man, robbed by some villain's hand^ 
Or with long sickness pale, and paler yet 
With want and hunger, oft drank bitter draughts 
Of his own tears, and had no bread to eat. 
Oh! who can tell what sights he saw, whaH 

shapes 
Of wretchedness ! or who describe what smiles 
Of gratitude illumed the face of woe. 
While from his hand he gave the bounty forth ! 
As when the sun, to Cancer wheeling back. 
Returned from Capricorn, and showed the north, 
That long had lain in cold and cheerkss night, 
His beamy countenance, all nature then 
Rejoiced together glad ; the flower looked up 
And smiled ; the forest from his locks shook off 
The hoary frosts, and clapped his hands ; the birds 



THE COURSE OF TIME, 



739 



Awoke, and, singing, rose to meet the day ; 
And from his hollow den, where many months 
He slumbered sad in darkness, blythe and light 
Of heart the savage sprung ; and saw again 
His mountains shine ; and with new songs of love, 
Allured the virgin's ear — so did the house. 
The prison-house of guilt, and all the abodes 
Of unprovided hopelessness, revive, 
As on them looked the sunny messenger 
Of charity ; by angels tended still, 
That marked his deeds, and wrote them in the 

book 
Of God's remembrance : — careless he to be 
Observed of men ; or have each mite bestowed 
Recorded punctually, with name and place, 
In every bill of news : pleased to do good. 
He gave and sought no more — nor questioned 

much, 
Nor reasoned who deserved ; for well he knew 
The face of need. Ah me ! who could mistake ? 
The shame to ask, the want that urged within, 
Composed a look so perfectly distinct 
From all else human, and withal so full 
Of misery, that none could pass untouched 
And be a christian ; or thereafter claim, 
In any form, the name or rights of man ; 
Or, at the day of judgment, lift his eye : 
While he, in name of Christ, who gave the poor 
A cup of water, or a bit of bread. 
Impatient for his advent, waiting stood, 
Glowing in robes of love and hoUness, 
Heaven's fairest dress ! and round him ranged in 

white, 
A thousand witnesses appeared, prepared 
To tell his gracious deeds before the throne. 

Nor unrenowned among the most renowned. 
Nor 'mong the fairest unadmired, that morn, 
When highest fame was proof of highest v/orth. 
Distinguished stood the bard ; — not he, who sold 
The incommunicable heavenly gift. 
To Folly ; and with lyre of perfect tone, 
Prepared by God himself, for honest praise — 
Vilest of traitors I most dishonest man ! — 
Sat by the door of Ruin, and made there 
A melody so sweet, and in the mouth 
Of drunkenness and debauch, that else had 

croaked 
In natural discordance jarring harsh, 
Put so divine a song, that many turned 
Aside, and entered in undone ; and thought, 
Meanwhile, it was the gate of heaven ; so like 
An angel's voice the music seemed : nor he. 
Who, whining grievously of damsel coy, 
Or blaming fortune, that would nothing give 
For doing nought, in indolent lament. 
Unprofitable, passed his piteous days. 
Making himself the hero of his tale — 
Deserving ill the poet's name. But he. 
The bard, by God's own hand anointed, who, 
To Virtue's all-delighting harmony, 
His numbers tuned ; who from the fount of truth 
Poured melody, and beauty poured, and love, 
In holy stream, into the human heart ; 
And from the height of lofty argument. 
Who justified the ways of God to man 



Terrestrial, which the pure celestial fire 
Cooled, and restrained in part his flaming vnag. 

Philosophy was deemed of deeper thought, 
And judgment more severe than Poetry ; 
To fable she, and fancy more inclined. 
And yet if Fancy, as was understood. 
Was of creative nature, or of power 
With self-wrought stuff" to build a fabric up, 
To mortal vision wonderful and strange, 
Philosophy, the theoretic, claimed 
Undoubtedly the first and highest place 
In Fancy's favour : her material souls ; 
Her chance ; her atoms shaped ahke ; her white 
Proved black ; her universal nothing, all ; 
And all her wondrous systems, how the mind 
With matter met ; how man was free, and yet 
All preordained ; how evil first began; 
And chief, her speculations, soarings high, 
Of the eternal uncreated Mind, 
Which left all reason infinitely far 
Behind — surprising feat of theory ! 
Were pure creation of her own : webs wove 
Of gossamer in Fancy's lightest loom ; 
And no where, on the list of being made 
By God, recorded : but her look meanwhile 
Was grave and studious ; and many thought 
She reasoned deeply, when she wildly raved. 

The true, legitimate, anointed bard. 
Whose song through ages poured its melody, 
Was most severely thoughtful, most minute 
And accurate of observation, most 
Familiarly acquainted with all modes 
And phases of existence. True, no doubt, 
He had originally drunk, from out 
I The fount of life and love, a double draught. 
That gave, whate'er he touched, a double life; 
But this was mere desire at first, and power 
Devoid of means to work by ; need was still 
Of persevering, quick, inspective mood 
Of mind, of faithful memory, vastly stored, 
From universal being's ample field. 
With knowledge; and a judgment sound and 

clear, 
Well disciplined in nature's rules of taste : 
Discerning to select, arrange, combine. 
From infinite variety, and still 
To nature true ; and guide withal, hard task, . 
The sacred living impetus divine. 
Discreetly through the harmony of song. 
Completed thus, the poet sung ; and age 
To age, enraptured, heard his measures flow 
Enraptured, for he poured the very fat 
And marrow of existence through his verse j 
And gave the soul — that else in selfish cold, 
Unwarmed by kindred interest, had lain — 
A roomy life, a glowing relish high, 
A sweet expansive brotherhood of being, — " 
Joy answering joy, and sigh responding sigh. 
Through all the fibres of the social heart. 
Observant, sympathetic, sound of head, 
Upon the ocean vast of human thought. 
With passion rough and stormy, venturing out. 
Even as the living billows rolled, he threw 
His numbers over them, seized as they were. 



And sung, what still he sings — approved in heaven, And to perpetual ages left them fixed. 
Though now with bolder note, above the damp 'To each, a mirror of itself displayed ; 



740 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



Despair for ever lowering dark on Sin ; 
And Happiness on Virtue smiling fair. 

He was the minister of fame ; and gave 

To whom he would renown ; nor missed himself, 

Although despising much the idiot roar 

Of popular applause, that sudden oft 

Unnaturally turning, whom it nursed 

Itself devoured, — the lasting fame, the praise 

Of God and holy men, to excellence given. 

Yet less he sought his own renown, than wished 

To have the eternal images of truth 

And beauty, pictured in his verse, admired. 

'Twas these, taking immortal shape and form 

Beneath his eye, that charmed his midnight watch. 

And oft his soul with awful transports shook. 

Of happiness, unfelt by other men. 

This was that spell, that sorcery, which bound 

The poet to the lyre, and would not let 

Him go ; that hidden mystery of joy, 

Which made him sing in spite of fortune's worst ; 

And was, at once, both motive and reward. 

Nor now among the choral harps, in this 
The native clime of song, are those unknown, 
With higher note ascending, who, below, 
In holy ardour, aimed at lofty strains. 
True fame is never lost : many, whose names 
Were honoured much on Earth, are famous here 
For poetry, and with archangel harps, 
Hold no unequal rivalry in song ; 
Leading the choirs of heaven, in numbers high. 
In numbers ever sweet and ever new. 

Behold them yonder, where the river pure 
Flows warbling down before the throne of God, 
And, shading, on each side, the tree of life 
Spreads its unfading boughs ! see how they shine. 
In garments white, quaffing deep draughts of love. 
And harping on their harps, new harmonies 
Preparing for the ear of God, Most High ! 

But why should I, of individual worth. 
Of individual glory, longer sing? 
No true believer was that day obscure ; 
No holy soul but had enough of joy ; 
No pious wish without its full reward. 
Who in the Father and the Son believed, 
With faith that wrought by love to holy deeds, 
And purified the heart, none trembled there, 
Nor had by earthly guise his rank concealed : 
Whether, unknown, he tilled the ground remote. 
Observant of the seasons, and adored 
God in the promise yearly verified, 
Of seed-time, harvest, summer, winter, day 
And night, returning duly at the time 
Appointed ; or on the shadowy mountain side. 
Worshipped at dewy eve, watching his flocks ; 
Or, trading, saw the wonders of the deep, 
And as the needle to the starry pole 
Turned constantly, so he his heart to God; 
Or else, in servitude severe, was taught 
To break the bonds of sin ; or, begging, learned 
To trust the Providence that fed the raven, 
And clothed the hly with her annual gown. 

Most numerous indeed, among the saved. 
And many too, not least illustrious, shone, 



The men who had no name on earth : eclipsed 
By lowly circumstance, they lived unknown ; 
Like stream that in the desert warbles clear, 
Still nursing, as it goes, the herb and flower, 
Though never seen ; or hke the star retired 
In solitudes of ether, far beyond 
All sight, not of essential splendour less, 
Though shining unobserved ; none saw their pure 
Devotion, none their tears, their faith, and love 
Which burned within them, both to God and man ! 
None saw but God. He, in his bottle, all 
Their tears preserved, and every holy wish 
Wrote in his book ; and not as they had done, 
But as they wished with all their heart to do, 
Arrayed them now in glory, and displayed, — 
No longer hid by coarse uncourtly garb — 
In lustre equal to their inward worth. 

Man's time was past, and his eternity 
Begun ! no fear remained of change. The youth, 
Who, in the glowing morn of vigorous life, 
High reaching after great i-eligious deeds. 
Was suddenly cut off", with all his hopes 
In sunny bloom, and unaccomplished left 
His withered aims, — saw everlasting days 
Before him dawning rise, in which to achieve 
All glorious things, and get himself the name 
That jealous Death too soon forbade on earth. 

Old things had passed away, and all was new: 
And yet of all the new-begun, nought so 
Prodigious diflference made, in the affairs 
And thoughts of every man, as certainty. 
For doubt, all doubt was gone, of every kind; 
Doubt that erewhile, beneath the lowest base 
Of moral reasonings, deepest laid, crept in. 
And made the strongest, best cemented towers 
Of human workmanship, so weakly shake, 
And to their lofty tops so waver still. 
That those who built them, feared their sudden 

fall. 
But doubt, all doubt was past ; and in its place, 
To every thought that in the heart of man 
Was present, now had come an absolute, . 
Unquestionable certainty, which gave 
To each decision of the mind, immense 
Importance, raising to its proper height 
The sequent tide of passion, whether joy 
Or grief. The good man knew, in very truth. 
That he was saved to all eternity. 
And feared no more ; the bad had proof complete. 
That he was damned for ever ; and believed 
Entirely, that on every wicked soul 
Anguish should come, and wrath and u*ter woe. 

Knowledge was much increased, but wisdom 

more. 
The film of Time, that still before the sight 
Of mortal vision danced, and led the best 
Astray, pursuing unsubstantial dreams. 
Had dropped from every eye : men saw that they 
Had vexed themselves in vain, to understand 
What now no hope to understand remained ; 
That they had often counted evil good. 
And good for ill ; laughed when they should have 

wept. 
And wept forlorn when God intended mirth. 
But what of all their follies past, surprised 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



741 



Them most, and seemed most totally insane 

And unaccountable, was value set 

On objects of a day ; was serious grief, 

Or joy, for loss, or gain of mortal things ; 

So utterly impossible it seemed, 

When men their proper interest saw, that aught 

Of terminable kind, that aught which e'er 

Could die, or cease to be, however named, 

Should make a human soul, a legal heir 

Of everlasting years, rejoice or weep 

In earnest mood ; for nothing now seemed worth 

A thought, but had eternal bearing in't. 

Much truth had been assented to in Time, 
Which never, till this day, had made a due 
Impression on the heart. Take one example ; 
Early from heaven it was revealed, and oft 
Repeated in the world, from pulpits preached, 
And penned and read in holy books, that God 
Respected not the persons of mankind. 
Had this been truly credited and felt. 
The king, in purple robe, had owned, indeed, 
The beggar for his brother ; pride of rank 
And office thawed into paternal love ; 
Oppression feared the day of equal rights. 
Predicted ; covetous extortion kept 
In mind the hour of reckoning, soon to come ; 
And bribed injustice thought of being judged, 
When he should stand on equal foot beside 
The man he wronged. And surely — nay, 'tis 

true. 
Most true, beyond all whispering of doubt. 
That he, who lifted up the reeking scourge, 
Dripping with gore from the slave's back, before 
He struck again, had paused, and seriously 
Of that tribunal thought, where God himself 
Should look him in the face, and ask in wrath. 
Why didst thou this ? Man ! was he not thy 

brother ? 
Bone of thy bone, and flesh and blood of thine ? 
But ah ! this truth, by heaven and reason taught. 
Was never fully credited on earth. 
The tilled, flattered, lofty men of power, 
Whose wealth bought verdicts of applause for 

deeds 
Of wickedness, could ne'er believe the time 
Should truly come, when judgment should pro- 
ceed 
Impartially against them, and they, too. 
Have no good speaker at the Judge's ear. 
No witnesses to bring them off for gold. 
No power to turn the sentence from its course; 
And they of low estate, who saw themselves, 
Day after day, despised, and wronged, and 

mocked. 
Without redress, could scarcely think the day 
Should e'er arrive, when they in truth should 

stand 
On perfect level with the potentates 
And princes of the earth, and have their cause 
Examined fairly, and their rights allowed. 
But now this truth ^Vas felt, believed and felt, 
That men were really of a common stock ; 
That no man ever had been more than man. 

Much prophecy — revealed by holy bards, 
Who sung the will of heaven by Judah' s streams — 
Much prophecy that waited long, the scoff 



Of lips uncircumcised, was then fulfilled ; 

To the last tittle scrupulously fulfilled. 

It was foretold by those of ancient days, 

A time should come, when wickedness should 

weep 
Abashed ; when every lofty look of man 
Should be bowed down, and all his haughtiness 
Made low; when righteousness alone should lift 
The head in glory, and rejoice at heart ; 
When many, first in splendour and renown, 
Should be most vile ; and many, lowest once 
And last in poverty's obscurest nook, 
Highest and first in honour should be seen. 
Exalted ; and when some, when all the good, 
Should rise to glory, and eternal hfe ; 
And all the bad, lamenting, wake, condemned 
To shame, contempt, and everlasting grief. 

These prophecies had tarried long ; so long 
That many wagged the head, and, taunting, asked. 
When shall they come ? But asked nor more, nor 

mocked : 
For the reproach of prophecy was wiped 
Away, and every word of God found true. 

And ! what change of state ! what change 
of rank ! 
In that assembly every where was seen ! 
The humble-hearted laughed ; the lofty mourned ; 
And every man according to his works 
Wrought in the body, there took character. 

Thus stood they mixed ! all generations stood 
Of all mankind ! innumerable throng ! 
Great harvest of the grave ! waiting the will 
Of Heaven, attentively and silent all, 
As forest spreading out beneath the calm 
Of evening skies, when even the single leaf 
Is heard distinctly rustle down and fall ; 
So silent they, when from above, the sound 
Of rapid wheels approached, and suddenly 
In heaven appeared a host of angels strong. 
With chariots and with steeds of burning fire : 
Cherub, and Seraph, Thrones, Dominions, Pow- 
ers, 
Bright in celestial armour, dazzling, rode : 
And leading in the front, illustrious shone 
Michael and Gabriel, servants long approved 
In high commission, — girt that day with power, 
Which nought created, man or devil, might 
Resist : nor waited gazing long ; but quick 
Descending, silently and without song. 
As servants bent to do their master's work, 
To middle air they raised the human race. 
Above the path long travelled by the sun ; 
And as a shepherd from the sheep divides 
The goats ; or husbandman, with reaping bands, 
In harvest, separates the precious wheat, 
Selected from the tares : so did they part 
Mankind, — the good and bad, to right and left,— 
To meet no more ; these ne'er again to smile; 
Nor those to weep ; these never more to share 
Society of mercy with the saints ; 
Nor, henoeforth, those to suffer with the vile. 
Strange parting ! not for hours, nor days, nor 

months. 
Nor for ten thousand times ten thousand years ; 
But for a whole eternity ! though fit, 



742 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



And pleasant to the righteous, yet to all 
Strange and most strangely felt! The sire, to 

right 
Retiring, saw the son, sprung from his loins, 
Beloved how dearly once — but who forgot, 
Too soon, in sin's intoxicating cup. 
The father's warnings and the mother's tears — 
Fall to the left among the reprobate. 
And sons redeemed, beheld the fathers, whom 
They loved and honoured once, gathered among 
The wicked: brothers, sisters, kinsmen, friends; 
Husband and wife, who ate at the same board, 
And under the same roof, united, dwelt, 
From youth to hoary age, bearing the chance 
And change of time together, — parted then 
For evermore. But none whose friendship grew 
From virtue's pure and everlasting root, 
Took different roads ; — these, knit in stricter 

. bonds 
Of amity, embracing, saw no more 
Death with his scythe stand by, nor heard the 

word, 
The bitter word, which closed all earthly friend- 
ships, 
And finished every feast of love — Farewell. 
To all, strange parting ! to the wicked, sad 
And terrible ! new horror seized them while 
They saw the saints withdrawing, and with them 
All hope of safety, all delay of wrath. 

Beneath a crown of rosy light, — like that 
Which once in Goshen, on the flocks, and herds. 
And dwellings, smiled, of Jacob, while the land 
Of Nile was dark ; or like the pillar bright 
Of sacred fire, that stood above the sons 
Of Israel, when they camped at midnight by 
The foot of floreb, or the desert side 
Of Sinai, — now the righteous took their place, 
All took their place, who ever wished to go 
To heaven, for heaven's own sake ; not one re- 
mained 
Among the accursed, that e'er desired with all 
The heart to be redeemed ; that ever sought 
Submissively to do the will of God, 
Howe'er it crossed his own: or to escape 
Hell, for aught other than its penal fires. 
All took their place rejoicing, and beheld. 
In centre of the crown of golden beams 
That canopied them o'er, these gracious words, | 
Blushing with tints of love : — Fear not, my saints. 

To other sight of horrible dismay, 
Jehovah's ministers, the wicked drove. 
And left them bound immoveable in chains 
Of Justice : o'er their heads a bowless cloud 
Of indignation hung: a cloud it was 
Of thick and utter darkness ; rolling, like 
An ocean, tides of livid, pitchy flame ; 
With thunders charged, and Hghtnings ruinous, 
And red with forked vengeance, such as wounds 
The soul; and full of angry shapes of wrath; 
And eddies, whirling with tumultuous fire ; 
And forms of terror raving to and fro ; 
And monsters, unimagined heretofore 
By guilty men in dreams before their death. 
From horrid to more horrid changing still. 
In hideous movement through tiiat stormy gulf: 
And evermore the thunders, murmuring^ spoke 



From out the darkness, uttering loud these words, 
Which every guilty conscience echoed back : 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not." 
Dread words ! that barred excuse, and threw the 

weight 
Of every man's perdition on himself 
Directly home. Dread words ! heard then, and 

heard 
For ever through the wastes of Erebus. 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not !" 
These were the words which glowed upon the 

sword, 
Wh<)se wrath burned fearfully behind the cursed, 
As they were driven away from God to Tophet. 
" Ye knew your duty, but ye did it not !" 
These are the words to which the harps of grief 
Are strung ; and to the chorus of the damned, 
The rocks of hell repeat them evermore ; 
Loud echoed through the caverns of despair. 
And poured in thunder on the ear of Woe. 

Nor ruined men alone, beneath that cloud. 
Trembled : there Satan and his legions stood ; 
Satan the first and eldest sinner, bound 
For judgment : he, by other name, held once 
Conspicuous rank in heaven among the sons 
Of happiness, rejoicing day and night: 
But pride, that was ashamed to bow to God 
Most high, his bosom filled with hate, his face 
Made black with envy, and in his soul begot 
Thoughts guilty of rebellion 'gainst the throne 
Of the Eternal Father and the Son, — 
From everlasting built on righteousness. 

Ask not how pride, in one created pure. 
Could grow ; or sin without example spring, 
Where holiness alone was sown : esteem 't 
Enough, that he, as every being made 
By God, was .made entirely holy, had 
The will of God before him set for law 
And regulation of his life ; and power 
To do as bid ; but was, meantime, left free, 
To prove his worth, his gratitude, his love ; 
How proved besides ? for how could service done,^ 
That might not else have been withheld, evince 
The will to serve, which, rather than the deed, 
God doth require, and virtue counts alone ? 
To stand or fall, to do or leave undone, 
Is reason's lofty privilege, denied 
To all below, by instinct bound to fate, 
Unmeriting ahke reward or blame. 

Thus free, the Devil chose to disobey 
The will of God ; and was thrown out from 

heaven, 
And with him all his bad example stained: 
Yet not to utter punishment decreed, 
But left to fill the measure of his sin, 
In tempting and seducing man — too soon, 
Too easily seduced ! And from the day. 
He first set foot on earth — of rancour full, 
And pride, and hate, and malice, aud revenge- 
He set himself, with most felonious aim. 
And hellish perseverance, to root out 
All good, and in its place to plant all ill; 
To rub and raze, from all created thingSi 
The fair and holy portraiture divine. 
And on them to enstamp his features grim; 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



743r 



To draw all creatures off from loyally 

To their Creator ; and to make them bow 

The knee to him. Nor failed of great success, 

As populous hell this day can testify. 

He held indeed large empire in the world, 

Contending proudly with the King of heaven. 

To him temples were built, and sacrifice 

Of costly blood upon his altars flowed ; 

And, what best pleased him, for in show he 

seemed 
Then likest God, whole notions bowing, fell 
Before him, worshipping, and from his lips 
Entreated oracles, which he, by priests — 
For many were his priests in every age — 
Answered, though guessing but at future things, 
And erring oft, yet still believed ; so well 
His ignorance, in ambiguous phrase, he veiled. 

Nor needs it wonder, that with man once fallen, 
His tempting should succeed. Large was his 

mind 
And understanding ; though impaired by sin. 
Still large ; and constant practice, day and night. 
In cunning, guile, and all hypocrisy, 
From age to age, gave him e.xperience vast 
In sin's dark tactics, such as boyish man. 
Unarmed by strength divine, could ill withstand. 
And well he knew liis weaker side ; and still 
His lures with baits that pleased the senses 

busked ; 
To his impatient passions offering terms 
Of present joy, and bribing reason's eye 
With earthly wealth, and honours near at hand ; 
Nor failed to misadvise his future hope 
And faith, by false unkerneled promises 
Of heavens of sensual gluttony and love, 
That suited best their grosser appetites. 
Into the sinner's heart, who lived secure, 
And feared him least, he entered at his will. 
But chief he chose his residence in courts. 
And conclaves, stirring princes up to acts 
Of blood and tyranny ; and moving priests 
To barter truth, and swap the souls of men 
For lusty benefices, and address 
Of lofty sounding. Nor the saints elect. 
Who walked with God, in virtue's path sublime, 
Did he not sometimes venture to molest ; 
In dreams and moments of unguarded thought. 
Suggesting guilty doubts and fears, that God 
Would disappoint their hope ; and in their way 
Bestrewing pleasures, tongued so sweet, and so 
In holy garb arrayed, that many stooped. 
Believing them of heavenly sort, and fell ; 
And to their high professions, brought disgrace 
And scandal ; to themselves, thereafter, long 
And bitter nights of sore repentance, vexed 
With shame, unwonted sorrow, and remorse. 
And more they should have fallen, and more have 

wept, 
Had not their guardian angels, — who, by God 
Commissioned, stood beside them in the hour 
Of danger, whether craft, or fierce attack. 
To Satan's deepest skill opposing skill 
More deep, and to his strongest arm, an arm 
More strong, — upborne them in their hands, and 

filled 
Their souls with all discernment, quick, to pierce 
His stratagems and fairest shows of sin. 



Now, like a roaring lion, up and down 
The world, destroying, though unseen, he raged r 
And now, retiring back to Tartarus, 
Far back, beneath the thick of guiltiest dark, 
Where night ne'er heard of day, in council grim 
He sat, with ministers whose thoughts wer& 

damned, 
And there such plans devised, as, had not God 
Checked and restrained, had added earth entire 
To hell, and uninhabited left heaven, 
Jehovah unadored. Nor unsevere. 
Even then, his punishment deserved : the Worm- 
That never dies, coiled in his bosom, gnawed 
Perpetually ; sin after sin, brought pang 
Succeeding pang ; and now and then the bolts 
Of Zion's King, vindictive, smote his soul 
With fiery woe to blast his proud designs : 
And gave him earnest of the wrath to come. 
And chief, when on the cross, Messiah said, 
" 'Tis finished," did the edge of vengeance smite 
Him through, and all his gloomy legions touch 
With new despair. But yet, to be the first 
In mischief, to have armies at his call. 
To hold dispute with God, in days of Time 
His pride and malice fed, and bore him up 
Above the worst of ruin : still, to plan 
And act great deeds, tho' wicked, brought at leasl 
The recompense which nature hath attached 
To all activity, and aim pursued 
With perseverance, good, or bad ; for as, 
By nature's laws, immutable and just. 
Enjoyment stops where indolence begins , 
And purposeless, to-morrow borrowing sloth,- 
Itself, heaps on its shoulders loads of woe. 
Too heavy to be borne ; so industry, — 
To meditate, to plan, resolve, perform. 
Which in itself is good — as surely brings 
Reward of good, no matter what be done : 
And such reward the Devil had, as long 
As the decrees eternal gave him space 
To work : but now, all action ceased ; his hope 
Of doing evil perished quite ; his pride, 
His courage, failed him ; and beneath that cloud. 
Which hung its central terrors o'er his head. 
With all his angels, he, for sentence, stood. 
And rolled his eyes around, that uttered guilt 
And woe, in horrible perfection joined. 
As he had been the chief and leader, long. 
Of the apostate crew that warred with God 
And holiness; so now, among the bad, 
Lowest, and most forlorn, and trembling most, 
With all iniquity deformed and foul. 
With all perdition ruinous and dark, 
He stood, — example awful of the wrath 
Of God ! sad mark, to which all sin must fall ! — 
And made, on every side, so black a hell. 
That spirits, used to night and misery. 
To distance drew, and looked another way ; 
And from their golden cloud, far off, the saints 
Saw round him darkness grow more dark, and 

heard 
The impatient thunderbolts, with deadliest crash, 
And frequentest, break o'er his head, — the sign, 
That Satan there, the vilest sinner, stood. 

Ah me ! what eyes were there beneath that 
cloud ! 
Eyes of despair, final and certain ! eyes 



744 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



That looked, and looked, and saw, where'er 

they looked. 
Interminable darkness ! utter woe ! 

'Twas pitiful to see the early flower 
Nipped by the unfeeling frost, just when it rose, 
Lovely in youth, and put its beauties on. 
'Twas pitiful to see the hopes of all 
The year, the yellow harvest, made a heap, 
By rains of judgment ; or by torrents swept, 
With flocks and cattle, down the raging flood ; 
Or scattered by the winnowing winds, that bore, 
Upon their angry wings, the wrath of heaven. 
Sad was the field, where yesterday was heard 
The roar of war ; and sad the sight of maid, 
Of mother, widow, sister, daughter, wife, 
Stooping and weeping over senseless, cold. 
Defaced, and mangled lumps of breathless earth, 
Which had been husbands, fathers, brothers, 

sons, 
And lovers, when that morning's sun arose. 
'Twas sad to see the wonted seat of friend 
Removed by death : and sad to visit scenes. 
When old, where, in the smiling morn of life, 
Lived many, who both knew and loved us much. 
And they all gone, dead, or dispersed abroad ; 
And stranger faces seen among their hills. 
'Twas sad to see the little orphan babe 
Weeping and sobbing on its mother's grave. 
'Twas pitiful to see an old, forlorn, 
Decrepit, withered wretch, unhoused, unclad, 
Starving to death with poverty and cold. 
'Twas pitiful to see a blooming bride. 
That promise gave of many a happy year. 
Touched by decay, turn pale, and waste, and 

die. 
'Twas pitiful to hear the murderous thrust 
Of ruffian's blade that sought the life entire. 
'Twas sad to hear the blood come gurgling forth 
From out the throat of the wild suicide. 
Sad was the sight of widowed, childless age 
Weeping. I saw it once. Wrinkled with time. 
And hoary with the dust of years, an old 
And worthy man came to his humble roof, 
Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood. 
No foot, no voice, was heard within ; none came 
To meet him, where he oft had met a wife. 
And sons, and daughters, glad at his return ; 
None came to meet him ; for that day had seen 
The old man lay, within the narrow house, 
The last of all his family ; and now 
He stood in solitude, in sohtude 
Wide as the world ; for all that made to him 
Society, had fled beyond its bounds. 
Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay 
The wreck of some fond hope, that touched his 

soul 
With bitter thoughts, and told him all was past. 
His lonely cot was silent ; and he looked 
As if he could not enter ; on his staff". 
Bending, he leaned ; and from his weary eye. 
Distressing sight ! a single tear-drop wept: 
None followed, for the fount of tears was dry; 
Alone and last it fell from wrinkle down 
To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by 
The withered cheek, on which again no smile 
Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen. 
This sight was very pitiful ; but one 






Was sadder still, the saddest seen in Time : 

A man, to-day the glory of his kind. 

In reason clear, in understanding large. 

In judgment sound, in fancy quick, in hope 

Abundant, and in promise, like a field 

Well cultured, and refreshed with dews frota 

God; 
To-morrow, chained, and raving mad, and 

whipped 
By servile hands ; sitting on dismal straw. 
And gnashing with his teeth against the chain, 
The iron chain that bound him hand and foot ; 
And trying whiles to send his glaring eye 
Beyond the wide circumference of his woe ; 
Or, humbling more, more miserable still. 
Giving an idiot laugh, that served to show 
The blasted scenery of his horrid face ; 
Calling the straw his sceptre, and the stone, 
On which he pinioned sat, his royal throne. 
Poor, poor, poor man ! fallen far below the brute ! 
His reason strove in vain to find her way. 
Lost in the stormy desert of his brain ; 
And being active still, she wrought all strange, 
Fantastic, execrable, monstrous things. 



All these were sad, and thousands more, that 1 
sleep 
Forgotten beneath the funeral pall of Time ; 
And bards, as well became, bewailed them much, 
With doleful instruments of weeping song. 
But what were these ? what might be worse, 

had in't. 
However small, some grains of happiness: 
And man ne'er drank a cup of earthly sort, 
That might not held another drop of gall; 
Or, in his deepest sorrow, laid his head 
Upon a pillow, set so close with thorns. 
That might not held another prickle still. 
Accordingly, the saddest human look 
Had hope in't ; faint indeed, but still 'twas hope. 
But why excuse the misery of earth ! 
Say it was dismal, cold, and dark, and deep, 
Beyond the utterance of strongest words : 
But say that none remembered it, who saw 
The eye of beings damned for evermore ! " 
Rolling, and rolling, and roUing still in vain, 
To find some ray, to see beyond the gulf 
Of an unavenued, fierce, fiery, hot. 
Interminable, dark Futurity ! 
And roUing still, and rolling still in vain ! 

Thus stood the reprobate beneath the shade 
Of terror, and beneath the crown of love, 
The good ; and there was silence in the vault 
Of heaven : and as they stood and listened, they 

heard, 
Afar to left, among the utter dark. 
Hell rolling o'er his waves of burning fire ; 
And thundering through his caverns, empty then, 
As if he preparation made, to act 
The final vengeance of the Fiery Lamb. 
And here was heard, coming from out the Pit, 
The hollow waihng of Eternal Death, 
And horrid cry of the Undying Worm. 

The wicked paler turned ; and scarce the good 
Their colour kept ; but were not long dismayed. 
That moment, in the heavens, how wondrous fair ! 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



745 



The angel of Mercy stood, and, on the bad, 
Turning his back, over the ransomed threw 
His bow bedropped with imagery of love, 
And promises on which their faith reclined. 
Throughout, deep, breathless silence reigned 

again ; 
And on the circuit of the upper spheres, 
A glorious seraph stood, and cried aloud, 
That every ear of man and devil heard : 
" Him that is filthy, let be filthy still; 
Hun that is holy, let be holy still." 
And suddenly, another squadron bright, ^ - 

Of high arch-angel glory, stooping, brought 
A marvellous bow ; one base upon the Cross, 
The other, on the shoulder of the Bear, 
They placed, from south to north, spanning the 

heavens, • 
And on each hand dividing good and bad, — 
Who read on either side these burning words, 
Which ran along the arch in living fire. 
And wanted not to be believed in full : 
" As ye have sown, so shall ye reap this day." 



BOOK X. 



ANALYSIS. 

The author invokes God, for acceptance, and the 
assistance of the Holy Spirit ; that he may faith- 
fully interpret the notes of the ancient Bard, 
"the holy numbers" which his spirit hears, 
and describe the Day of Judgment. 

Suddenly Michael sounds the golden trumpet, 
ancfmillions, infinite, of the holy spirits gathered 
from heaven as well as from the farthest worlds 
around, and met at the Eternal throne ; and 
from a radiant cloud, God declares the purpose 
of the assembly. He states the destiny of man 
is concluded, the day of Retribution, appointed 
from all eternity, is come, and the generations 
of earth collected to the place of judgment. 

The Father infinite then addresses the Messiah, 
and assigns to him his covenant office of Judge. 
The Son, taking the book of remembrance, 
the seven last thunders, the crowns of life, and 
the Sword of Justice, ascends the living Cha- 
riot of God, attended by numbers infinite, moves 
fbrv/ardin glory, becomes visible to the sons of 
men, and ascends the Throne, placed between 
the good and bad. 

In awful silence a mighty angel spread open the 
book of God's remembrance, and each one with 
sincere conscience attests the record true. He 
arose to pronounce the sentence. No creature 
breathed, every sphere and star stood still and 
hstened, and upon the wickedfirst he issued the 
dread decree ; and plunged the sword, which 
now he drew, into the midst ; they sink into 
final misery, into utter darkness and irremedi- 
able woe. — The fire then consumed the earth. 
Lastly the righteous receive the crowns, and a 
joyous approval, and ascend to heaven with 
their judge, singing glory to God and to the 
Lamb. 

94 



God of my fathers ! holy, just, and good ! 
My God ! my Father ! my unfailing Hope ! 
Jehovah ! let the incense of my praise, 
Accepted, burn before thy mercy seat, 
And in thy presence burn, both day and night. 
Maker ! Preserver ! my Redeemer ! God ! 
Whom have I in the heavens but Thee alone ? 
On earth, but Thee, whom should I praise, whom 

love? 
For thou hast brought me hitherto, upheld 
By thy omnipotence ; and from thy grace — 
Unbought, unmerited, though not unsought — ■ 
The wells of thy salvation, hast refreshed 
My spirit ; watering it, at morn and even ! 
And by thy Spirit, which thou freely givest 
To whom thou wilt, hast led my venturous song, 
Over the vale, and mountain tract, the light 
And shade of man ; into the burning deep 
Descending now, and now circling the mount 
Where highest sits Divinity entlironed ; 
Rolling along the tide of fluent thought, 
The tide of moral, natural, divine ; 
Gazing on past, and present, and again. 
On rapid pinion borne, outstripping Time, 
In long excursion, wandering through the groves 
Unfading, and the endless avenues 
That shade the landscape of eternity ; 
And talking there with holy angels met. 
And future men, in gloriotis vision seen ! 
Nor unrewarded have I watched at night, 
And heard the drowsy sound of neighbouring 

sleep. 
New thought, new imagery, new scenes of bliss 
And glory, unrehearsed by mortal tongue. 
Which, unrevealed, I, trembling, turned and left, 
Bursting at once upon my ravished eye, 
With joy unspeakable, have filled my soul, 
And made my cup run over with delight ; 
Though in my face, the blasts of adverse winds, 
While boldly circumnavigating man. 
Winds seeming adverse, though perhaps not so, 
Have beat severely — disregarded beat. 
When I behind me heard the voice of God, 
And his propitious Spirit say, — Fear not. 

God of my fathers ! ever present God ! 
This offering more inspire, sustain, accept ; 
Highest, if numbers answer to the theme; 
Best answering if thy Spirit dictate most. 
Jehovah ! breathe upon my soul ; my heart 
Enlarge ; my faith increase ; increase my hope, 
My thoughts exalt ; my fancy sanctify. 
And all my passions, that I near thy throne 
May venture, unreproved ; and sing the day, 
Which none unholy ought to name, the Day 
Of Judgment ; greatest day, past or to come ; 
Day, which — deny me what thou wilt ; deny 
Me home, or friend, or honourable name — 
Thy mercy grant, I, thoroughly prepared, 
With comely garment of redeeming love, 
May meet, and have my Judge for Advocate, 

Comt, gracious Influence ! Breath of the Lord ! 
And touch me, trembling, as thou touched the 

man. 
Greatly beloved, when he in vision saw, 
By Ulai's stream, the Ancient sit: and talked 
With Gabriel, to his prayer swiftly sent, 



746 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



At evening sacrifice. Hold my right hand, 
Almighty ! hear me — for I ask through Him, 
Whom thou hast heard, whom thou wilt always 

hear, 
Thy Son, our interceding Great High Priest. 
Reveal the future ; let the years to come 
Pass by ; and open my ear to hear the harp ; 
The prophet harp, whose wisdom I repeat. 
Interpreting the voice of distant song. — 
Which thus again resumes the lofty verse; 
Loftiest, if I interpret faithfully 
The holy numbers which my spirit hears. 

Thus came the day — the Harp again began — 
The day that many thought should never come ; 
That all the wicked wished should never come ; 
That all the righteous had expected long ; 
Day greatly feared, and yet too little feared 
By him who feared it most ; day laughed at much 
By the profane ; the trembling day of all 
Who laughed ; day when all shadows passed, all 

dreams ; 
When substance, when reality commenced. 
Last day of lying, final day of all 
Deceit, all knavery, all quackish phrase ; 
Ender of all disputing, of all mirth 
Ungodly, of all loud and boasting speech. 
Judge of all judgments ; Judge of every judge ; 
Adjuster of all causes, rights and wrongs. 
Day oft appealed to, and appealed to oft 
By those who saw its dawn with saddest heart; 
Day most magnificent in Fancy's range, 
Whence she returned, confounded, trembling, 

pale, 
With overmuch of glory faint and blind : 
Day most important held, prepared for most, 
By every rational, wise, and holy man : 
Day of eternal gain, for worldly loss: 
Day of eternal loss, for worldly gain. 
Great day of terror, vengeance, woe, despair! 
Revealer of all secrets, thoughts, desires ! 
Rein-trying, heart-investigating day. 
Which stood between Eternity and Time, 
Reviewed all past, determined all to come. 
And bound all destinies for evermore. 
BeMeving day of unbelief ! Great day ! 
Which set in proper light the affairs of earth, 
And justified the government Divine. 
Great day ! what can we more ? what should we 

more ? 
Great triumph day of God's Incarnate Son ! 
Great day of glory to the Almighty God ! 
Day whence the everlasting years begin 
Their date ! new era in eternity ! 
And oft referred to in the song of heaven ! 

Thus stood the apostate, thus the ransomed 
stood ; 
Those held by justice fast, and these by love, 
Reading the fiery scutcheonry, that blazed 
On high, upon the great celestial bow : — 
"As ye have sown, so shall ye reap this day." 
All read, all understood, and all believed; 
Convinced of judgment, righteousness, and sin. 
Meantime the universe throughout was still : 
The cope, above and round about, was calm : 
And, motionless, beneath them lay the earth, 
Silent and sad, as one that sentence waits, 



For flagrant crime : when suddenly was heard 
Behind the azure vaulting of the sky, 
Above, and far remote from reach of sight, 
The sound of trumpets and the sound of crowds, 
And prancing steeds, and rapid chariot wheels, 
That from four quarters rolled, and seemed in 

haste, 
Assembhng at some place of rendezvous : 
And so they seemed to roll, with furious speed, 
As if none meant to be behind the first. 
Nor seemed alone : that day the golden trump, 
Whose voice from centre to circumference 
Of all created things, is heard distinct, 
God had bid Michael sound to summon all 
The hosts of bliss to presence of their King ; 
And, all the morning, millions infinite. 
That millions governed each. Dominions, Powers, 
Thrones, Principalities, with all their hosts, 
Had been arriving, near the capital. 
And royal city, New Jerusalem, 
From heaven's remotest bounds: nor yet from 

heaven 
Alone came they that day : the worlds around, 
Or neighbouring nearest on the verge of night, 
Emptied, sent forth their whole inhabitants : 
All tribes of being came, of every name, 
From every coast, filling Jehovah's courts. 
From morn till mid-day, in the squadrons poured 
Immense, along the bright celestial roads. 
Swiftly they rode ; for love unspeakable 
To God, and to Messiah, Prince of Peace, 
Drew them, and made obedience haste to be 
Approved. And now before the Eternal Throne- 
Brighter that day than when the Son prepared 
To overthrow the seraphim rebelled — 
And circhng round the mount of Deity, 
Upon the sea of glass, all round about, 
And down the borders of the stream of life, 
And over all the plains of Paradise, 
For many a league of heavenly measurement, 
Assembled, stood the immortal multitudes. 
Millions above all numbers infinite, 
The nations of the blest. Distinguished each, 
By chief of goodly stature blazing far. 
By various garb, and flag of various hue 
Streaming through heaven from standard lifted 

high,~ 
The arms and imagery of thousand worlds. 
Distinguished each ; but all arrayed complete, 
In armour bright, of helmet, shield, and sword, 
And mounted all in chariots of fire. 
A military throng, blent, not confused: 
As soldiers on some day of great review, 
Burning in splendour of refulgent gold, 
And ornament on purpose long devised 
For this expected day. Distinguished each. 
But all accoutred as became their Lord, 
And high occasion ; all in holiness. 
The livery of the soldiery of God, 
Vested ; and shining all with perfect bliss. 
The wages which his faithful servants wdn. 

Thus stood they numberless around the mount 
Of presence; and, adoring, waited, hushed 
In deepest silence, for the voice of God. 
That moment, all the Sacred Hill on high 
Burned, terrible with glory, and behind 
The uncreated lustre hid the Lamb, 



THE COURSE OF TIME 



747 



Invisible; when, from the radiant cloud, 
This voice, addressing all the hosts of heaven, 
Proceeded ; not in words as we converse, 
Each with his fellow, but in language such 
As God doth use, imparting, without phrase 
Successive, what, in speech of creatures, seems 
Long narrative, though long, yet losing much, 
In feeble symbols, of the thought Divine. 

My servants long approved, my faithful sons ! 
Angels of glory, Thrones, Dominions, Powers! 
Well pleased, this morning, I have seen the speed 
Of your obedience, gathering round my throne, 
In order due, and well-becoming garb ; 
Illustrious, as I see, beyond your wont, 
As was my wish, to glorify this day : 
And now what your assembling means, attend. 

This day concludes the destiny of man ; 
The hour, appointed from •eternity, 
To judge the earth, in righteousness, is come ; 
To end the war of Sin, that long has fought. 
Permitted, against the sword of Holiness : 
To give to men and devils, as their works. 
Recorded in my all-remembering book, 
I find ; good to the good, and great reward 
Of everlasting honour, joy, and peace. 
Before my presence here for evermore : 
And to the evil, as their sins provoke. 
Eternal recompense of shame and woe, 
Cast out beyond the bounds of light and love. 

Long have I stood', as ye, my sons, well know, 
Between the cherubim, and stretched my arms 
Of mercy out, inviting all to come 
To me, and live ; my bowels long have moved 
With great compassion ; and my justice passed 
Transgression by, and not imputed sin. 
Long here, upon my everlasting throne, 
I have beheld my love and mercy scorned ; 
Have seen my laws despised, my name blas- 
phemed. 
My providence accused, my gracious plans 
Opposed ; and long, too long, have I beheld 
The wicked triumph, and my saints reproached 
Maliciously, while on my altars lie. 
Unanswered still, their prayers and their tears. 
Which seek ray coming, wearied with delay : 
And long, Disorder in my moral reign 
Has walked rebelliously, disturbed the peace 
Of my eternal government, and wrought 
Confusion, spreading far and wide, among 
My works inferior, which groan to be 
Released. Nor long shall groan : the hour of grace. 
The final hour of grace is fully past. 
The time accepted for repentance, faith. 
And pardon, is irrevocably past , 
And Justice, unaccompanied, as wont. 
With Mercy, now goes forth, to give to all 
According to their deeds. Justice alone ; 
For why should Mercy any more be joined ? 
What hath not mercy, mixed with judgment, 

done, 
That mercy, mixed with judgment and reproof. 
Could do ? Did I not revelation make. 
Plainly and clearly, of my wdll entire ? 
Before them set my holy law, and gave 
Them knowlege, wisdom, prowess, to obey. 



And win, by self- wrought works, eternal life? 
Rebelled, did I not send them terms of peace, 
Which, not my justice, but my mercy asked ?— 
Terms costly to my well-beloved Son ; 
To them gratuitous ; exacting faith 
Alone for pardon, works evincing faith? 
Have I not early risen, and sent my seers, 
Prophets, apostles, teachers, ministers, 
With signs and wonders, working in my name? 
Have I not still, from age to age, raised up, 
As I saw needful, great, religious men, 
Gifted by me with large capacity. 
And by my arm omnipotent upheld. 
To pour the numbers of my mercy forth. 
And roll my judgments on the ear of man ? 
And lastly, when the promised hour was come— 
What more could most abundant mercy do ?— 
Did I not send Immanuel forth, my Son, 
Only begotten, to purchase, by his blood, 
As many as believed upon his name ? 
Did he not die to give repentance, such 
As I accept, and pardon of all sins ? 
Has he not taught, beseeched, and shed abroad 
The Spirit unconfined, and given, at times. 
Example fierce of wrath and judgment, poured 
Vindictively on nations guilty long ? 
What means of reformation that my Son 
Has left behind untried ? what plainer words, 
What arguments more strong, as yet remain ? 
Did he not tell them with his lips of truth, — 
The righteous should be saved, the wicked, 

damned? 
And has he not, awake both day and night, 
Here interceded with prevailing voice. 
At my right hand, pleading his precious blood 
Which magnified my holy law, and bought, 
For all who wished, perpetual righteousness 1 
And have not you, my faithful servants, all 
Been frequent forth, obedient to my w'ill. 
With messages of mercy and of love. 
Administering my gifts to sinful man ? 
And have not all my mercy, all my love. 
Been sealed and stamped with signature of 

heaven ? 
By proof of wonders, miracles, and signs 
Attested, and attested more by truth 
Divine, inherent in the tidings sent? 
This day declares the consequence of all. 
Some have believed, are sanctified, and saved, 
Prepared for dwelling in this holy place. 
In these their mansions, built before my face ; 
And now beneath a crown of golden light. 
Beyond our wall, at place of judgment, they. 
Expecting, wait the promised due reward. 
The others stand with Satan bound in chains ; 
The others, who refused to be redeemed, — 
They stand, unsanctified, unpardoned, sad, 
Waiting the sentence that shall fix their woe. 
The others who refused to be redeemed ; 
For all had grace suflicient to believe. 
All who my gospel heard ; and none who heard 
It not, shall by its law this day be tried. 
Necessity of sinning, my decrees 
Imposed on none ; but rather all inclined 
To holiness ; and grace was bountiful. 
Abundant, overflowing with my vvord ; 
My word of life and peace, which to all men 
Who shall or stand or fall, by law revealed, 



748 



ROBERT POLLOK, 



Was offered freely, as 'twas freely sent, 
-Without all money, and without all price. 
Thus, they have all, by willing act, despised 
Me, and my Son, and sanctii'ying Spirit. 
But now no longer shall they mock or scorn : 
The day of Grace and Mercy is complete. 
And Godhead from their Misery absolved. 

So saying, He, the Father infinite. 
Turning, addressed Messiah, where he sat 
Exalted gloriously, at his right hand. 
This day belongs to justice, and to Thee, 
Eternal Son ! thy riglat for service done 
Abundantly fulfiUing all my will ; 
By promise thine, from all eternity, 
Made in the ancient Covenant of Grace ; 
And thine, as most befitting, since in thee 
Divine and human meet, impartial Judge, 
Consulting thus the interest of both. 
Go then, my Son, divine similitude ! 
Image express of Deity unseen ! 
The book of my remembrance take ; and take 
The golden crowns of life, due to the saints ; 
And take the seven last thunders ruinous ; 
Thy armour take ; gird on thy sword, thy sword 
Of justice ultimate, reserved, till now 
Unsheathed, in thy eternal armoury ; 
And mount the living chariot of God. 
Thou goest not now, as once to Calvary, 
To be insulted, buffeted, and slain : 
Thou goest not now with battle, and the voice 
Of war, as once against the rebel hosts: 
Thou goest a Judge, and find'st the guilty bound : 
Thou goest to prove, condemn, acquit, reward ; 
Not unaccompanied ; all these, my saints, 
Go with thee, glorious retinue ! to sing 
Thy triumph, and participate thy joy ; 
And I, the Omnipresent, with thee go ; 
And with thee, all the glory of my throne. 

Thus said the Father ; and the Son beloved. 
Omnipotent, Omniscient, Fellow God, 
Arose resplendent with Divinity ; 
And He the book of God's remembrance took ; 
And took the seven last thunders ruinous ; 
And took the crowns of life, due to the saints ; 
His armour took ; girt on his sword, his sword 
Of justice ultimate, reserved, till now 
Unsheathed, in the eternal armoury ; 
And up the living chariot of God 
Ascended, signifying all complete. 

And now the Trump of wonderous melody, 
By man or angel never heard before. 
Sounded with thunder, and the march began — 
Not swift, as cavalcade, on battle bent, 
But, as became procession of a judge. 
Solemn, magnificent, majestic, slow: 
Moving sublime with glory infinite, 
And numbers infinite, and awful song. 
They passed the gate of heaven, which many a 

league 
Opened either way, to let the glory forth 
Of this great march. And now the sons of men 
Beheld their coming, which, before, they heard; 
Beheld the glorious countenance of God ! 
All light was swallowed up, all objects seen. 
Faded; and the Incarnate, visible 



Alone, held every eye upon Him fixed ! 

The wicked saw his majesty severe. 

And those who pierced Him, saw his face with 

clouds 
Of glory circled round, essential bright ! 
And to the rocks and mountains called in vain, 
To hide them from the fierceness of his wrath: 
Almighty power their flight restrained, and held 
Them bound immoveable before the bar. 

The righteous, undismayed and bold — ^best 
proof 
This day of fortitude sincere — sustained 
By inward faith, with acclamations loud. 
Received the coming of the Son of Man; 
And, drawn by love, inclined to his approach, 
Moving to meet the brightness of his face. 

Meantime, 'tween good and bad, the Judge hia 

wheels 
Stayed, and, ascending, sat upon the great 
White Throne, that morning founded there by 

power 
Omnipotent, and built on righteousness 
And truth. Behind, before, on every side, 
In native, and reflected blaze of bright 
Celestial equipage, the myriads stood, 
That with his marching came ; rank above rank, 
Rank above rank, with shield and flaming sword. 

'Twas silence all : and quick, on right and left, 
A mighty angel spread the book of God's 
Remembrance ; and, withconsciencenow sincere, 
All men compared the record written there, 
By finger of Omniscience, and received 
Their sentence, in themselves, of joy or woe ; 
Condemned or justified, while yet the Judge, 
Waited, as if to let them prove themselves. 
The righteous, in the book of life displayed. 
Rejoicing, read their names ; rejoicing, read 
Their faith for righteousness received, and deeds 
Of holiness, as proof of faith complete. 
The wicked, in the book of endless death. 
Spread out to left, bewailing read their names : 
And read beneath them, Unbehef, and fruit 
Of unbelief, vile, unrepented deeds, 
Now unrepentable for evermore ; 
And gave approval of the woe affixed. 

This done, the Omnipotent, Omniscient Judge, 
Rose infinite, the sentence to pronounce. 
The sentence of eternal woe or bliss ! 
All glory heretofore seen or conceived ; 
All majesty, annihilated, dropped, 
That moment, from remembrance, and was lost; 
And silence, deepest hitherto esteemed. 
Seemed noisy to the stillness of this hour. 
Comparisons I seek not ; nor should find. 
If sought : that silence, which all being held. 
When God's Almighty Son, from off the walls 
Of heaven the rebel angels threw, accursed, 
So still, that all creation heard their fall 
Distinctly, in the lake of burning fire, — 
Was now forgotten, and every silence else. 
All being rational, created then. 
Around the judgment seat, intensely listened: 
ISo creature breathed: man, angei, devil, stood 
And listened; the spheres stood still, and every star 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 



749 



Stood still and listened ; and every particle 
Remotest in the womb of matter stood, 
Bending to hear, devotional and still. 
And thus upon the wicked first, the Judge 
Pronounced the sentence, written before of old; 
" Depart from me, ye cursed, into the fire 
Prepared eternal in the Gulf of Hell, 
Where ye shall weep and wail for evermore ; 
Reaping the harvest which your sins have sown." 

So saying, God grew dark with utter wrath: 
And drawing now the sword, undrawn before, 
Which through 'he range of infinite, all around, 
A gleam of fiery mdignation threw, 
He lifted up his hand omnipotent, 
And down among the damned the burning edge 
Plunged ; and from forth his arrowy quiver sent, 
Emptied, the seven last thunders ruinous. 
Which, entering, withered all their souls with fire. 
Then first was vengeance, first was ruin seen ! 
Red, unrestrained, vindictive, final, fierce ! 
They, howling, fled to west among the dark ; 
But fled not these the terrors of the Lord : 
Pursued, and driven beyond the Gulf, which 

frowns 
Impassable, between the good and bad. 
And downward far remote to left, oppressed 
And scorched with the avenging fires, begun 
Burning within them, — they upon the verge 
Of Erebus, a moment pausing stood. 
And saw, below, the unfathomable lake. 
Tossing with tides of dark, tempestuous wrath; 
And would have looked behind ; but greater wrath 
Behind, forbade, which now no respite gave 
To final misery : God, in the grasp 
Of his Almighty strength, took them upraised. 
And threw them down, into the yawning pit 
Of bottomless perdition, ruined, damned. 
Fast bound in chains of darkness evermore ; 
And Second Death, and the Undying Worm, 
Opening their horrid jaws, with hideous yell, 
Falling, received their everlasting prey. 
A groan returned, as down they sunk, and sunk, 
And ever sunk, among the utter dark ! 
A groan returned ! the righteous heard the groan ; 
The groan of all the reprobate, when first 
They felt damnation sure ! and heard Hell close ! 
And heard Jehovah, and his love retire ! 
A groan returned ! the righteous heard the groan : 
As if all misery, all sorrow, grief, 
All pain, all anguish, all despair, which all 
Have suffered, or shall feel, from first to last 
Eternity, had gathered to one pang, 
And issued in one groan of boundless woe ! 

And now the wall of hell, the outer wall, 
First - gateless then, closed round them; that 

which thou 
Hast seen, of fiery adamant, emblazed 
With hideous imagery, above all hope, 
Above all flight of fancy, burning high ; 
And guarded evermore by Justice, turned 
To Wrath, that hears, unmoved, the endless groan 
Of those wasting within ; and sees, unmoved, 
The endless tear of vain repentance fall. 

Nor ask if these shall ever be redeemed. 
They never shall : not God, but their own sin 



Condemns them : what could be done, as thou 

hast heard. 
Has been already done ; all has been tried. 
That wisdom infinite, and boundless grace. 
Working together, could devise, and all 
Has failed ; why now succeed ? Though God 

should stoop, 
Inviting still, and send his Only Son 
To offer grace in hell, the pride that first 
Refused, would still refuse ; the unbelief. 
Still unbelieving, would deride and mock; 
Nay more, refuse, deride, and mock ; for sin, 
Increasing still, and growing day and night 
Into the essence of the soul, become 
All sin, makes what in time seemed probable, — 
Seemed probable, since God invited then — 
For ever now impossible. Thus they, 
According to the eternal laws which bind 
All creatures, bind the Uncreated One, 
Though we name not the sentence of the Judge — 
Must daily grow in sin andpunishment, 
Made by themselves their necessary lot. 
Unchangeable to all eternity. 

What lot ! what choice ! I sing not, cannot sing. 
Here, highest seraphs tremble on the lyre, 
And make a sudden pause ! but thou hast seen. 
And here the bard a moment held his hand, 
As one who saw more of that horrid woe 
Than words could utter ; and again resumed. 

Nor yet had vengeance done. The guilty Earth 
Inanimate, debased, and stained by sin, 
Seat of rebellion, of corruption, long, 
And tainted with mortality throughout, 
God sentenced next ; and sent the final fires 
Of ruin forth, to burn and to destroy. 
The saints its burning saw ; and thou mayst see. 
Look yonder, round the lofty golden walls 
And galleries of New Jerusalem, 
Among the imagery of wonders past ; 
Look near the southern gate ; look, and behold, 
On spacious canvass, touched with living hues,— 
The Conflagration of the ancient earth. 
The handiwork of high archangel, drawn 
From memory of what he saw that day. 
See how the mountains, how the valleys burn! 
The Andes burn, the Alps, the Apennines; 
Taurus and Atlas, all the islands burn ; 
The Ocean burns, and rolls his waves of flame. 
See how the lightnings, barbed, red with v/rath, 
Sent from the quiver of Omnipotence, 
Cross and recross the fiery gloom, and burn 
Into the centre ! burn without, within. 
And help the native fires, which God awoke, 
And kindled with the fury of his wrath. 
As inly troubled, now she seems to shake ; 
The flames, dividing, now a moment fall ; 
And now in one conglomerated mass, 
Rising, they glow on high, prodigious blaze : 
Then fall and sink again, as if, within. 
The fuel, burnt to ashes, was consumed. 
So burned the Earth upon that dreadful day ; 
Yet not to full annihilation burned : 
The essential particles of dust remained, 
Purged by the final, sanctifying fires. 
From all corruption ; from all stain of sin, 
Done there by man or devil, purified. 



750 



ROBERT POLLOK. 



The essential particles remained, of which 
God built the world again, renewed, improved, 
With fertile vale, and wood of fertile bough; 
And streams of milk and honey, flovving song; 
And mountains cinctured with perpetual green ; 
In clime and season fruitful, as at first, 
When Adam woke, unfallen, in Paradise. 
And God, from out the fount of native light, 
A handful took of beams, and clad the sun 
Again in glory ; and sent forth the moon 
To borrow thence her wonted rays, and lead 
Her stars, the virgin daughters of the sky. 
And God revived the winds, revived the tides ; 
And touching her from his Almighty hand, 
With force centrifugal, sho onward ran, 
Coursing her wonted path, to stop no more. 
Delightful scene of new inhabitants ! 
As thou, this morn, in passing hither, sawst. 

This done, the glorious Judge, turning to 
right. 
With countenance of love unspeakable. 
Beheld the righteous, and approved them thus : 
"Ye blessed of my Father, come; ye just, 
Enter the joy eternal of your Lord ; 
Receive your crowns, ascend, and sit with Me, 
At God's right hand, in glory evermore." 

Thus said the Omnipotent, Incarnate God: 
And waited not the homage of the crowns. 
Already thrown before him ; nor the loud 
Amen of universal, holy praise; 
But turned the living chariot of fire. 
And swifter now — as joyful to declare 
This day's proceedings in his Father's court. 
And to present the number of his sons 
Before the throne — ascended up to heaven. 
And all his saints, and all his angel bands, 
As, glorious, they on high ascended, sung 
Glory to God, and to the Lamb ! — they sung 
Messiah, fairer than the sons of men. 
And altogether lovely. Grace is poured ; 
into thy lips, above all measure poured ; 
And therefore God hath blessed thee evermore. 



Gird, gird thy sword upon thy thigh, thou 
Most Mighty ! wiih thy glory ride ; with all 
Thy majesty, ride prosperously, because 
Of meekness, truth, and righteousness. Thy 

throne, 
O God, for ever and for ever stands : 
The sceptre of thy kingdom still is right ; 
Therefore hath God, thy God, annointed Thee, 
With oil of gladness and perfumes of myrrh, 
Out of the ivory palaces, above 
Thy fellows, crowned the Prince of endless peace. 

Thus sung they God, their Saviour ; and them- 
selves 
Prepared complete to enter now with Christ, 
Their living Head, into the Holy Place. 
Behold the daughter of the King, the bride, 
All glorious within ! the bride adorned. 
Comely in broidery of gold ! behold, 
She comes, apparelled royally, in robes 
Of perfect righteousness ; fair as the sun; 
With all her virgins, her companions fair; 
Into the Palace of the King she comes 1 
She comes to dwell for evermore ! Awake, 
Eternal harps ! awake, awake, and sing ! 
The Lord, the Lord, our God Almighty, reigns ! 

Thus the Messiah, with the hosts of bliss. 
Entered the gates of heaven — unquestioned nowf— 
Which closed behind them, to go out no more. 
And stood accepted in his Father's sight; 
Before the glorious, everlasting throne. 
Presenting all his saints ; not one was lost, 
Of all that he in Covenant received : 
And having given the kingdom up, he sat, 
Where now he sits and reigns, on the right hand 
Of glory ; and our God is all in all. 

Thus have I sung beyond thy first request, 
Rolling my numbers o'er the track of man, 
The world at dawn, at mid-day, and dechne ; 
Time gone, the righteous saved, the wicked 

damned, 
And God's eternal government approved. 



GEORGE CROLY. 



George Croly was born in Ireland, towards 
the close of the last century. Being intended for 
the Church, he entered the Irish University, Tri- 
nity College, Dublin, at an early age, — obtained 
a scholarship, and successively proceeded to the 
degrees of A. B. and A. M. He was ordained by 
Q'Beirne, Bishop of Meath — the friend of Ed- 
mund Burke — and put in charge of a parish in his 
diocese. His residence was favourable to the 
study of his profession : the village church stood 
on the borders of an immense lake, imbedded in 
mountains ; and the solitude amid which the Poet 
thought and wrote, strengthened his mind, and 
prepared it to contest for eminence in the great 
world he was to enter. After remaining some 
years in this retirement, he visited London ; — it 
was at the animating period when England first 
embarked in the Spanish war. Sharing the gene- 
ral impulse of the time, and intending to see, in 
person, the land whose sudden achievements re- 
stored almost her old days of romance, he applied 
himself vigorously to acquire the Spanish lan- 
guage. On the first announcement that the Elbe 
was open, he went to Germany. No moment 
could have been more interesting to a British ob- 
server. The Continent had been a sealed book 
since the short peace of Amiens. During the in- 
terval the most singular changes had been wrought 
in every continental state. The three great capitals 
of the Continent had been entered by the French 
armies. The population had been alternately 
broken down by military severity, and roused 
to resistance by foreign extortion. Men and man- 
ners had changed : half a generation had gone 
down into the grave ; — -all was now strange, and 
impressed with the character of the great con- 
vulsion. Dr. Croly has given some account of 
this aspect of things, in a lately published volume, 
entitled, the " Year of Liberation," — formed from 
his recollections of the time. He resided chiefly 
in Hamburgh, — the return of the French troops 
preventing all intercourse with the interior of Ger- 
many. Napoleon had flooded the Continent again 
with his conscripts, and all was confusion. In 
1815, Paris was opened to the world. The lost 
army of France caphulated behind the Loire, and 
the conqueror of Waterloo replaced the old 
family of the French kings on the throne. The 
curiosity of the English led them to Paris in mul- 
titudes ; and Dr. Croly remained there for some 
time. But his chief interest seems to have been 
excited by the localities and monuments of the 



Revolution ; while the generality of the visiters 
occupied themselves with the later memorials of 
the empire which abound in Paris, and which 
form some of the most striking ornaments of that 
capital, he was engrossed by the scenes which 
had been distinguished in the revolutionary period 
and reign of terror, — the Temple, the Carmes, 
the site of the Bastille, the prison of the Abbaye, 
&c. With those impressions on his mind, on his" 
return to England, he produced his first poem, 
entitled, "Paris in 1815." It was successful, 
and was followed at intervals by other poems, — 
"The Angel of the World," a tragedy on the 
subject of the CatiHnarian Conspiracy, — " Gems 
from the Antique," &c. 

Dr. Croly is, thus, a writer of tragedy and 
comedy : — an almost universal Poet ; a painter 
of rich and glowing romance : a daring interpre- 
ter of the darkest mystery of the Scriptures, — the 
Apocalypse of St. John ; a skilful and searching^ 
critic ; and an eloquent and accomplished preacher. 
His poems have not obtained a popularity ade- 
quate to their merit — perhaps because he mani- 
fests but little sympathy with his kind. He is 
grand and gorgeous, but rarely tender and affec- 
tionate ; he builds a lofty and magnificent temple^ 
but it is too cold and stately to be a home for the 
heart. In several of his minor productions, he is 
exceedingly vigorous and animated, — and from 
his "Gems" maybe selected some of the boldest 
and most striking compositions in the language. 

A few years since he published his first work. 
in prose, " Salathiel, a story of the Past, the Pre- 
sent, and the Future," founded on the legend of 
the " Wandering Jew." 

But, as we have intimated, in subjects of this 
order, which are, indeed, analogous to his profes- 
sion. Dr. Croly had not neglected the more direct 
studies of theology. He has produced several 
works on the chief matters of divinity ; among the 
rest, a New Interpretation of the Apocalypse of 
St. John, — which has arrived at a third edition. 
In the year 1831, Lord Brougham, on taking the 
seals, gave him one of the livings in his gift as 
Chancellor. In 1835, Lord Lyndhurst, then 
Chancellor, gave him the rectory of St. Stephens, 
Walbrook, which involved the surrender of his 
former living. A few years previously he had re- 
ceived from his own University, what he probably 
felt as scarcely a less gratifying mark of recollec- 
tion, the unsolicited degree of LL. D, 

(751) 



752 



GEORGE CROLY. 



POEMS. 



PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 

This was the ruler of the land, 
When Athens was the land of fame ; 

This was the hght that led the band 
When each was like a living flame : 

The centre of earth's noblest ring 

Of more than men, the more than king ! 

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear, 
His sovereignty was held or won ; 

Fear'd — but alone as freemen fear ; 
Loved — but as freemen love alone I 

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind, 

By Nature's first great title — mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue ; 

Then eloquence first flash'd below I 
Full arm'd to life the portent spnmg, 

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow ! 
And his the sole, the sacred hand, 
That shook her aegis o'er the land ! 

And thron'd immortal, by his side, 
A woman sits, with eye sublime, — 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But if their solemn love were crime, — 

Pity the beauty and the sage,— 

Their crime was in their darken' d age. 

He perish' d — but his wreath was won— 
He perish'd on his height of fame ! 

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun ; 
Yet still she conquer'd in his name. 

Fill'd with his soul, she could not die — ■ 

Her conquest was posterity ! 



LINES WRITTEN AT SPITHEAD. 

Hark to the knell 1 
It comes to the swell 

Of the stormy ocean wave ; 
'Tis no earthly sound, 
But a toll profound 

From the mariner's deep sea grave.. 

When the billows dash, 
And the signals flash. 

And the thunder is on the gale ; 
And the ocean is white 
In its own wild hgh' . 

Deadly, and dismal, and pale. 

When the lightning's blaze 
Smites the seaman's gaze, 
And the sea rolls in fire and in foam ; 

And the surges* roar 
Shakes the rocky shore, 
We hear the sea-knell come. 

There 'neath the billow, 
The sand their pillow, 



Ten thousand men lie low ; 
And still their dirge 
Is sung by the surge, 

When the stormy night-winds blow. 

Sleep, warriors ! sleep 
On your pillow deep 

In peace ! for no mortal care, 
No art can deceive, — 
No anguish can heave 

The heart that once slumbers there. 



LEONIDAS, 



Shout for the mighty men 

Who died along this shore, — 

Who died within this mountain glen ! 

For never nobler chieftain's head 

Was laid on valour's crimson bed, 
Nor ever prouder gore 

Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 

Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! 

Shout for the mighty men, 

Who on the Persian tents, 
Like lions from their midnight den, 
Bounding on the slumbering deer, 
Rush'd — a storm of sword and spear- 
Like the roused elements, 
Let loose from an immortal hand, 
To chasten or to crush a land ! 

But there are none to hear ; 

Greece is a hopeless slave, 
Leonidas ■ no hand is near 
To lift thy fiery falchion now : 
No warrior makes the warrior's vow 

Upon thy sea-wash'd grave. 
The voice that should be raised by men, 
Must now be given by wave and glen. 

And it is given ! — the surge — 

The tree — the rock — the sand — 
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
In sounds that speak but to the free, 
The memory of thine and thee ! 

The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell. 
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell ! 

And is thy grandeur done ? 

Mother of men like these ! 
Has not thy outcry gone 
Where Justice has an ear to hear ! 
Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ; 

Till in thy crimson'd seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar, 
Greece shall be a new-born star ! 



THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 

It was the wild midnight, 
A storm w^&s on the sky ; 

The lightning gave its light, 
And the thunder echoed by. 



POEMS 



753 



The torren^ swept the glen, 
The ocean lash'd the shore ; 

Then rose the Spartan men, 
To make their bed in gore ! 

Swift from the deluged ground 
Three hundred took the shield ; 

Then, silent, gather'd round 
The leader of the field. 

He spoke no warrior-word, — 
He bade no trumpet blow ; 

But the signal thunder roar'd. 
And they rush'd upon the foe. 

The fiery element 

Show'd, with one mighty gleam. 
Rampart, and flag, and tent, 

Like the spectres of a dream. 

All up the mountain side, 
All down the woody vale, 

All by the rolling tide 
Waved the Persian banners pale. 

And King Leonidas, 

Among the slumbering band, 
Sprang foremost from the pass, 

Like the lightning's living brand. 

Then double darkness fell. 

And the forest ceased its moan ; 

But there came a clash of steel, 
And a distant, dying groan. 

Anon, a trumpet blew, 
And a fiery sheet burst high, 

That o'er the midnight threw^ 
A blood-red canopy. 

A host glared on the hill, — 
A host glared by the bay ; 

But the Greeks rush'd onwards still, 
Like leopards in their play. 

The air was all a yell, 

And the earth was all a fiame, 
Where the Spartan's bloody steel 

On the silken turbans came. 

And still the Greek rush'd on 

Beneath the fiery fold. 
Till, like a rising sun, 

Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 

They found a royal feast, 
His midnight banquet, there ! 

And the treasures of the east 
Lay beneath the Doric spear. 

Then sat to the repast 
The bravest of the brave ! 

That feast must be their last, — 
That spot must be their grave. 

They pledged old Sparta's name 
In cups of Syrian wine, 
95 



And the warrior's deathless fame 
Was sung in strains divine. 

They took the rose-wreath'd lyres 
From eunuch and from slave ; 

And taught the languid wires 
The sounds that freedom gave. 

But now the morning star 

Crown'd CEta's twilight brow; 

And the Persian horn of war 
From the hills began to blow. 

Up rose the glorious rank. 

To Greece one cup pour'd high,— 
Then, hand in hand, they drank 

" To Immortality !" 

Fear on King Xerxes fell. 

When, hke spirits from the tomb, 
With shout and trumpet-knell, 

He saw the warriors come. 

But down swept all his power, 
With chariot and with charge ; 

Down pour'd the arrowy shower. 
Till sank the Dorian's targe. 

They march'd within the tent, 
With all their strength unstrung; 

To Greece one look they sent, 
Then on high their torches flung. 

To heaven the blaze uproll'd. 

Like a mighty altar-fire ; 
And the Persians' gems and gold 

Were the Grecians' funeral pyre. 

Their king sat on the throne, 
His captains by his side, — 

While the flame rush'd roaring on. 
And their psean loud replied ! 

Thus fought the Greek of old, — ■ 

Thus will he fight again ! 
Shall not the selfsame mould 

Bring forth the selfsame men '? 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF NAPOLEON. 



L 



NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA; 

SUGGESTED BY HAYDOn's PICTURE. 

He sate upon the savage crag where Fear 
Had banished him, a captive, but the lord 
Of his own mind. He looked out on the waves. 
And thought when men as blindly followed him 
As they the moon through her untrodden paths. 
But now he was eclipsed : his light had gone from 

him, 
Darkened: and he, a shadow and a wreck 
Of mightiness departed. He was given 



754 



GEORGE CROLY 



(Boon for which fate doth compensate for fevil) 
The eye to look into futurity, 
And read the hopes of nations. He became 
A prophet, and earth's destinies foretold ; 
And saw how Freedom with earthquake convul- 
sion 
Would shake the world at last ; and knew how 

men 
Would then remember him as the Day-Star 
That heralded its dawn. Thus he endured 
Life, to prove that he triumphed o'er despair. 
A monument of Stoic pride ; — a mind 
The universe could not move from its base. 
But the Will, though indomitable, wears 
Away this mortal fragment, hastening 
To join its kindred elements. Nothing now 
Drew him from self: his rocky walls closed round 

him, 
The burning sun — the sky — the lurid waves — 
Time — life — light — space — one blank monotony ! 
He watched his heart corrode away beneath 
His sleepless spirit's edge ; he sate and counted 
His life-sands, as they slowly moved away ! 
And then, perchance, despair, — for hope was 

dead, — 
Ate like the iron in his soul. He was 
A thing of nerves, and nakedly alive 
To each base insect's sing, which now was felt 
By Mind, whose self-restraint was a sharp chain 
That goaded it to madness. ■ 

Thus he stood, 
Watching the setting sun that threw on him 
Its glory, unsubstantial as the fame 
That settled on his name ! He watched, and felt 
That Blessing follow not Ms track, nor went 
Before him ; yet was it decreed his path, 
The life of his necessity by fate, 
By the inscrutable Destiny that marks 
The rise and fall of empire ; in whose faith 
He acted, — glorying to be its slave. 
He rose — a hurricane — a moral storm — 
Shaking the fixed foundation of the world. 
Kings fearing him descended from their thrones. 
Or driven, or by ascendant mind compelled ; 
Whom he crushed not, because he could not stoop 
To their unworthiness, the petty art 
That wove the meshes of their strength allied. 
Then, when Convulsion swept even him away. 

Yet o'er his devastating course Goon shone : 
And truths, forgot 'midst buried ages, rose 
Again to light and memory. Kings felt 
Their weakness manifold in the Titan's fall ; 
The insecurity of Tyranny, 
When such as he succumbed. Hero of evil, 
Yet harbinger of good was that wild name : 
A tyrant, — he yet taught the oppressed their 

strength ; 
Nations enslaved awakened to his call. 
And, foiled awhile, yet treasured in their hearts 
Inestimable memories of deeds 
They dared, and did: to be remembered then, 
When Fate and Time unroll the Future's page, 
Einblazoned by their heaven^stamped liberties.* 



He proved the hollowness of the clay Idtol, 
The Power to which they slavishly had knelt ; 
That the innate divinity of Kings 
Should emanate from kingly minds alone : ~ 
That one alone should arbitrate on earth,* 
Even as the One in heaven : the elect of Fate, 
Who in the one hand held the unconquered sword, 
The Code, the other, hallowing his name 
With an enduring Glory to Time's end.t 

And then his battle fields arose before him s 
Those thunderbolts that marked each nation's fall, 
Until astounded armies cast their arms 
To earth without a stroke, t Even thus he stood 
Immovable 'midst triumph or reverse. 
Till Fortune blinded his all-seeing eyes 
With her too dazzhng glories. He became 
A god unto himself, while Flattery 
Echoed the falsehood back to him. He deemed 
The elements subjected to his will ; 
That Polar snows would, like the waves, subside 
At voice of sovereign command. 

Then rose 
Deathless Borodino before his eye. 
Where single handed Russia dared the fight, 
And fell, back reeling, looking to the skies 
For refuge ; that the Gates of Snow should open 
To hide themselves behind them. But behold 
Blazing from far their glorious sacrifice. 
Sublime atonement of a nation's sins. 
The abandoned Capitol, a reddening hell 
Of demon light amidst the Polar snows I 
Ocean of flame, whose roaring billows drowned 
The shouts of rage — the curses of despair !^ 
Altar, and beacon fire of Hope — the Cross, 
Speaking from high — ' ' In this thou overcom' st ! " 11 
Then came the mad retreat — the whirldwind 



* "His gigantic success and double fall taught abso 
lute princes their weakness, and injured nations their 
BtroDgth : such men as he are the avengers of great 



evils, and harbingers of good : even now we have seen 
only the beginning of the end." — Life of J^apoleon. 

* " My destiny is not yet accomplished : the picture 
as yet exists only in outline. There must be one code, 
one court of appeal, and one coinage for all Europe. 
The states of Europe must be melted into one nation, 
and Paris must be its capital." — Life of M'apoleon. Fa- 
mily Library. 

t" 'I shall go down to posterity,' said he, with ajust 
pride, 'with my code in my hand.' It was the first 
uniform system of law which the French monarchy 
had ever possessed ; and being drawn up with con- 
summate skill and wisdom, under the Emperor's per- 
sonal superintendence, at this day it forms not only 
the Code of France, but of a great portion of Europe 
also." — Ibid. 

t " At the capitulation of Ulm, thirty thousand men 
laid down their arms without striking a stroke, and 
twenty-seven generals surrendered their swords." 
Napoleon stood on a rising eminence : the expression 
of his countenance was that of " indifference, or rather, 
it had no expression— it was impassive."— Comnium- 
cationfrom a General Officer present. 

5 "Moscow was one vast ocean -of flame, which 
emitted a roaring sound like the breakers in a tempest 
—it was a visible Hell. Napoleon persisted in remain- 
ing in the Kremlin until it was enveloped, when to 
ride through the flames was a matter of danger and 
difficulty." — Count Dumas' Memoirs. 

II The Cross supposed to be seen in the sky by Con- 
stantine previous to the decisive victory which gained 
him the Western empire— tr tuvtm vsiicn. The cir- 
I cumstance is recorded by contemporary historians. 



POEMS. 



755 



Sweeping around them merciless as man : 
The stiffening hand, the pulseless heart and eye, 
The frozen standard, and the palsied arm : 
The unfrequent watch-fires rising like red sparks 
Amidst the illimitable snows ; the crowds 
Of spectral myriads shuddering around them — 
Frozen to statues ; scathed by the red flames. 
Or speared by howling savages, until 
Winter, less merciless than they, threw o'er them 
Her winding sheet of snows, deep burying 
Armies whose presence vanished like a dream ! 
There fell the man who against nature warred ; 
Amid his councils Treachery took her seat, 
Or openly raised her visor in the field:* 
Fortune had left him — never to return. 
Time's truths were taught, and fate's decree re- 
vealed. 
His race was run — he vanished from the world, 
Forgot like a departed thunderstorm. 
The infinite spirit that had filled the earth 
Evaporated in a barren isle, 
MingHng with the Infinity around him. 
The world heard when he died, and smiled, or 

sighed. 
And then — forgot. Fame defied in life, 
Giving his deeds and words to Time to live 
Enduring through a future without end. 
O let no more the idle moralist 
Weigh in his petty scale the dust of heroes !t 
But pause until his mind becomes so vast, 
That he can weigh the immeasurable spirit 
Fled from that dust for ever I then when reached 
The eagle's height — the world beneath him laid, 
Subjected to his swoop — the eagle's gaze 
Daring the sun in its meridian power ! 
The fierce ascent — the giddy height when 

proved — 
The sleepless aspirations of a spirit 
Conscious of fixing an immortal stampt 
Upon its every thought — the feverish hope 
Of infinite effort — and the stormy joy, 
The whirlwind pulse of triumph, yet calm eye 
Preserved, and coldest dignity of mien. 
Conscious of millions watching from below 
Heights they could never gain ; when these are 

proved. 
Faint morahst ! of calm and temperate pulse, 
Then sit in judgment ; then, in langviage vast 
As thy magnificent conceptions, tell 
Of thought and deeds eternal as thy words 
Shall be recording them : but oh ! till then. 
Sink not the mighty to thy narrow span ; 
Prate not of passions thou hast never proved :% 



* The disastrous battle of Leipsic, hazarded with 
immense inferiority of numbers by Napoleon against 
the allied powers, and more immediately lost by the 
open desertion of thirty-five thousand Saxons. Tal- 
leyrand, and others, were in early communication with 
his enemies. "Ifejt," said Napoleon, "the reins slip- 
ping from my hands." 

I Expende Annibalem ! &c. — Juvenal. 

t "What is this immortality 1 — remembrance left in 
the memory of man. That idea elevates to great deeds. 
Better never to have lived, than to leave no trace of 
one's existence." — Bourienne's Life. 

$ A passage in a French author, illustrating also 
these reflections, cannot be too often quoted : it is as 
just as it is forcibly expressed : — " Mais, en le condam- 
nant ne le meprisez pas, petites organisations qui 



Walk humbly in thy charitable path ; 

Nor deem that Star inferior, which sublime 

In infinite distance Uttle seems to thee. 

II. 

NAPOLEON, IN HIS FALL, TO CAIU3 

MARIUS. 

He stood among 
The wrecks of buried power — of what was: 
And did contemplate them till his mind drew 
The resolution that doth hope survive : 
That hath no root to cling to save itself, 
No hold — no subterfuge ; but which is born, 
Yea thrown up from the ashes of despair. 
Even thus he stood, sedate^ and calm, yet firm, 
Like him, the noble Roman, who was found 
Kingly reclining, midst the solitudes 
Of Carthage' ruins — silent, motionless. 
Looking himself the ruin he bestrode ! — 
Who chose the seat to suit his desolation ; 
To show how mind can triumph over ruin, 
Subjecting fate and fortune to its sway. 
So the slave found him : the pale, cringing slave, 
Who was sent forth to count hjs agonies. 
To pry into the secrets of his soul. 
The inner man, when he pours forth to Nature 
The passion which then bursts the bonds of pride 
And finds a struggling language. 

All alone, 
Alone against the solitary sky 
He sate — bareheaded, with the gathering storm 
Around him in the distance ! then, he turned 
And gave the slave the answer :* rather say, 
The warning Oracle that taught his foe 
The fleeting reign of empire and of man. 

III. 
NAPOLEON AT AUSTERLITZ. 

1. 

They do not die — they do not die- 
Souls of the brave and just ! 

Is 't not a coward's thought to say 
Ye pass again to dust ! 

Ye live through every age — y' are given 
To breathe in hearts of slaves 

The patriot flame ye drew from heaven : 
That sleeps not in your graves ! 

Your shapes bUnd Homer's eyes beheld, 

His harp ye strung — his soul ye swelled. 



I tell thee, yet on Marathon 
The shade of Theseus treads !t 

And the slave that walks Thermopyla 
The Spartan's spirit dreads. 



n'etes capables ni de bien ni de mal : ne mesurez 
qu'avec effroi le colosse de volonte qui lutte ainsi sur 
une mer fougeuse pour le seul plaisir d'exercer sa 
vigeur et de la jeter en dehors de lui. Son egoisrae 
le pousse au milieu des fatigues et des dangers, conune 
le votre vous enchaine k de patientes et loborieuses 
professions. Que son fatal example serve seulement 
a vous consoler de votre inoffensive nullity !" 

* " Go, tell him thou hast seen the exiled Marius sit- 
ting amidst the ruins of Carthage." — Plutarch's Life of 
Marius. 

t Plutarch relates that, during the battle of Mara- 



756 



GEORGE CROLY 



And hast thou stood by Uri's lake 
When tempests o'er it sweep, 

The shade of Tell from his misty cloud 
Looks downward from the steep ; 

And, frowning points with angry eye 

To Altorf 's tower, and days gone by ! 



Go — stand on Austerlitz : but not 

In the garish eye of day ; 
The thin, cold Dead are only seen 

By the pale Moon's watery ray ! 
But at the solemn hour of Night, 

When the world in sleep is drowned, 
The rush of troops — of an army's throng — 

Tramps o'er that marshalled ground, 
While to lead again the shadowy brave, 
Napoleon comes from his sea-girt grave. 

4. 
O, then he stands as he stood in life. 

His arms crossed o'er his breast ; 
With his eagle eye, and lip of pride. 

And his foot half forward pressed ; 
A monument, by nature stamped. 

Of resolution there !* 
With a soul that felt all it could do, 

And knew what it would dare ; 
While he looks unmoved, as he looked in life, 
When matched against the world in strife. 

5. 
Their drums are heard Hke the mufHed note 

Of winds when their strength is gone, 
And proudly in air the banners float, 

As the shadowy hosts move on ! 
A pale gleam from their helms is cast, 

From battle blade and spear ; 
And faintly sheds on the sumless ranks 

That darken in the rear ; 
In front, the Chiefs in martial ring 
Are crowding round their Phantom King ! 

6. 

His arm is raised to the clouded sky 

Where the Moon is struggling through ; 
A moment more — the mist flits by, 
A light gleams from his lambent eye. 

As she breaks forth full in view. — 
Thus " the Sun of Austerlitz" broke out ! 

He points to the conscious throng, 
While with joyous tread, and soundless shout. 

The armies charge along ! 
And thus, when the world in sleep is 

drowned. 
Napoleon walks on his hallowed ground. 



THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 

White bud, that in meek beauty so dost lean 
Thy cloister'd cheek as pale as moonhght snow, 

thon, the Athenian army thought they saw the appa- 
rition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down 
before them upon the Barbarians. 

* The well-known attitude of Napoleon— in the court 
—the camp — and on the battle tield. 



Thou seem' St beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, 
An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow. 

White bud ! thou 'rt emblem of a lovelier thing, 
The broken spirit that its anguish bears 

To silent shades, and there sits oflfering 
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears. 



THE ARTIST'S CHAMBER. 

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT. 



The room was low and lone, but linger'd there, 
In careless lovehness, the marks of mind ; 
The page of chivalry, superb and drear. 
Beside a half- fill' d vase of wine reclined, 
Told how romance and gaiety combined. 
And there, like things of immortality. 
Stood statues in their master's soul enshrined, 
Venus with the sweet smile and heavenly eye, 
And the sad solemn brow of lovely Niobe. 

And scatter'd round, by wall and sofa, lay 
Emblems of thoughts that love from earth to 

spring. 
Upon a portrait fell the evening ray, 
Touching with splendour many an auburn ring 
That veil'd a brow of snow ; and crimsoning 
The bending Spatiish cheek with living rose ; 
And there lay a guitar, whose silvery string 
Breathed to the wind ; hke beauty in repose ; 
Sighing the lovely sounds that bade her blue eye 

close. 



LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 



There is a tradition, that when Loeenzo the 
Magnificent was yet in his cradle, a wandering 
astrologer predicted his future renown. 



Infant — noble infant — sleep, 
While this midnight heaven I sweep. 
O'er thee burn a trine of stars, 
Jove the sovereign, fire-eyed Mars, 
Venus, with the diamond beam. 
Babe, thou'lt wear the diadem. 
Wield the victor sword, and win 
Woman more than half divine. 
On this pure and pencil' d brow 
Latent bursts of Ughtning glow. 
Haughty Venice shall be bow'd 
When they rend the thunder cloud. 
Eloquence is on thy lip. 
Now, hke roses when they dip 
Their budding crimson in the dew ; 
But, when time shall change its hue, 
Law, and truth, and liberty 
On its paler pomp shall lie. 



POEMS, 



757 



What is magic's mightiest wand 
To the sceptre in his hand ? 
Florence, city of the dead ! 
Cast the ashes from thy head, 
At its touch the palm shall bloom 
On thy solitary tomb. 
Sea ! that hear'st the dreary gale 
O'er thy lonely billows wail. 
When in strength this hand is raised, 
Thou shalt wear a crown emblazed ; 
Gold and glory from the East 
Shall on thy green forehead rest, 
At thy feet the banners riven 
Mark thy foes, the foes of Heaven. 
Grave ! where ancient genius lies. 
What shall bid thy slumberers rise ? 
Glorious Infant ! thou shalt stand, 
Sending down thy summons grand 
Through its depths, and they shall come 
Brighter for the transient tomb. 
In thy splendour, timid eye. 
Crowns shall lose their majesty ; 
Dim before the soul enshrined, 
The fiery sovereignty of mind. 
Child of might, young miracle, 
Sweet Lorenzo, fare thee well ! 



SATAN. 

PROM A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. 



" Satan dilated stood.' 



Milton. 



Prince of the fall'n ! around thee sweep 
The billows of the burning deep. 
Above thee bends the vaulted fire. 
Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire. 
And on thy sleepless vision rise 
Hell's living clouds of agonies. 

But thou dost like a mountain stand, 
The spear unlifted in thy hand ; 
Thy gorgeous eye, — a comet shorn. 
Calm into utter darkness borne ; 
A naked giant, stern, sublime, 
Arm'd in despair, and scorning Time. 

On thy curl'd lip is throned disdain. 
That may revenge, but not complain : 
Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale, 
There smote the blast of fiery hail. 
Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there, 
The wreck of an archangel's sphere. 

No giant pinions round thee cling. 
Clouds and the thunders are thy wing. 
Thy forehead wears no diadem, 
The king is in thine eye-ball's beam. 
Thy form is grandeur unsubdued. 
Sole chief of Hell's dark multitude. 



Yet, brighter than thy brightest hour, 

Shall rise in glory and in power. 

The lowliest of the lowly dead. 

His ransom' d, who shall bruise thy head. 

The myriads for His blood forgiven ; 

Kings of the stars, the loved of Heaven I 



EPITAPH. 



"Thou thy worldly task hast done." 

Shakspeabb. 



High peace to the soul of the dead. 

From the dream of the world she has gone t 

On the stars in her glory to tread, 

To be bright in the blaze of the throne. 

In youth she was lovely ; and Time, 
When her rose with the cypress he twined. 
Left her heart all the warmth of its prime. 
Left her eye all the light of her mind. 

The summons came forth, — and she died ! 
Yet her parting was gentle, for those 
Whom she loved, mingled tears at her side — 
Her death was the mourner's repose. 

Our weakness may weep o'er her bier, 
But her spirit has gone on the wing 
To triumph for agony here, 
To rejoice in the joy of her King. 



THE SONG OF ANTAR. 

FROM THE ARABIC. 



Antar, the great Arabian Epic, has become 
popular from Mr. Hamilton's admirable transla- 
tion. Yet the extravagance of the hero's lyrics 
is perhaps too unlicensed for English poetry. 



Ibla, I love thee. On my heavy eye 
Thine flashes, like the lightning on the cloud. 
I cannot paint thy beauty ; for it leaves 
All picturing pale. Were I to say the moon 
Looks in her midnight glory like thy brow, 
Where is the wild, sweet sparkling of thine eyef 
Or that the palm is like thy stately form, 
Where is thy grace among its waving boughs ? 
Thy forehead's whiteness is my rising sun; 
Thine ebon tresses wreathing it like night. 
Like night bewilder me ; thy teeth are pearls. 
In moist lips rosier than the Indian shell. 
But now my world is darkness, for thou'rt gone? 
Thy look was to my life what evening dews 
Are to the tamarisk : thy single glance 
Went swifter, deeper, to thy lover's heart, 
Than spear or scimitar ; and still I gaze 
Hopeless on thee, as on the glorious moon, 
For thou, hke her, art bright, like her above me. 



758 



GEORGE CROLY 



THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM. 



The air is fill'd with shouts, and trumpets' sound- 
ing ; 
A host are at thy gates, Jerusalem. 
Now is their van the Mount of Olives rounding; 
Above them Judah's lion-banners gleam, 
Twined with the palm and olives' peaceful stem. 
Now swell the nearer sounds of voice and string, 
As down the hill-side pours the living stream ; 
And to the cloudless heaven Hosannas ring — 
"The Son of David comes !-^the Conqueror — 
the King !" 

II. 
The cuirass' d Roman heard ; and grasp' d his 

shield, 
And rush'd in fiery haste to gate and tower ; 
The Pontiff from his battlement beheld 
The host, and knew the falling of his power : 
He saw the cloud of Sion's glory lour. 
Still down the marble road the myriads come, 
Spreading the way witli garment, branch, and 

flower. 
And deeper sounds are mingling, " Woe to 

Rome !" 
*■' The day of freedom dawns; rise, Israel, from 

thy tomb." 

III. 

Temple of beauty — long that day is done ; 

Thy ark is dust ; thy golden cherubim 

In the fierce triumphs of the foe are gone : 

The shades of ages on thy altars swim. 

Yet still a light is there, though wavering dim ; 

And has its holy lamp been watch' d in vain? 

Or lives it not until the finish'd time. 

When he who fix'd, shall break his people's chain, 

AndSionbe the loved, the crovvn'dof God again? 

IV. 
He comes, yet with the burning bolt unarm'd ; 
Pale, pure, prophetic, God of Majesty ! 
Though thousands, tens of thousands, round him 

swarm' d. 
None durst abide that depth divine of eye ; 
None durst the waving of his robe draw nigh. 
But at his feet was laid the Roman's sword : 
There Lazarus knelt to see his King pass by ; 
There Jarius, with his age's child, adored. 
" He comes, the King of Kings : Hosanna to the 

Lord!" 



THE PAINTER. 

R0STICUS loquitur. 
That rock's his haunt. — There's not in all our 

hills 
A hunter that can chmb with him. He'll watch 
Before the lark is up ; and, stafTin hand, 
For hours stand gazing, by the eagle's nest, 
Like one enamour'd of the rising sun. 
And then he'll make his couch beside a rill : 
Which, in his fantasy, he strews with shells, 



^nd hangs with garlands of the weedy flowers. 

Some think him love-crost ;— others, that he deals 

With spirits,— for all such seek loneUness : 

And yet I think him holy, for he loves 

Our convent walls, and many an evening strays 

To see the sunset sleeping on its roof 

And its old arches ; or but turns away 

To pore upon its image in the stream ; 

And then he'll spread his book upon his knee, 

And ma.ke a thousand things of beauty, then 

He'll tear the page, and fling it down the wind. 

Here's one of them. 

STKANGER. 

This is Lorraine ; or he is not on eacth. 



ROSOLIA. 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 



'Rammenta chi t' adora 
Ancora in questo stato." 



Adrian, Ludovico. 

ADRIAN. 

Ask me no more of her. 
The tale is idle, — past — 'tis of the things 
That lie i' the heart, as in a monument ; 
Faded — but holy, not to be disturb'd. 
Yet ' twere not much to say that she was fair, 
No, nor that when she smiled her smile was 

sweet, 
For so said all ; nor that her slender form 
Was touch'd with grace by Nature. Yonder 

wave. 
Sinking in lines of silver, — this green stem 
Bowing its purple clusters o'er our heads; 
That willow, swaying in the sunset wind, 
Were but its lifeless images. 

LUDOVICO. 

I saw her portrait once. 'Twas in your sleep : 
It had escaped your bosom. 

ADRIAN. 

Dared you gaze ? 
No eye but mine should have beheld that face ; 
No eye but mine should on that face have wept , 
No eye but mine should that dead face have 

loved ; 
For by all else its beauty were profaned. 
It was my secret pleasure, pain, hope, fear. 
My life's deep mystery. 

LUDOVICO. 

It was beautiful, 
And I half wonder'd, stranger as I was, _ 
To find my heart so waken' d by that smile. 

ADRIAN. 

It could not show Rosolia. See those streaks 
Painting the western clouds ; the living flush 



POEMS. 



759 



That dyes their white with crimson of the rose ; 
And there, the. zone of burnish'd hyacinth, 
That streams across the crimson Uke a wave ; 
There is the summer beauty of her cheek 
With the rich tress that veil'd it. 

When I sat 
Beneath her eye, I feh it on my heart 
Like a bright spell. 'Tis not the blaze of gems, 
Nor vesper starlight, nor aughi beautiful 
In this descending sun, or in this world. 
That can bring back its splendour : 'twas a beam 
Beyond all picturings of earth : a look 
As we have heard of angels, where no lips 
Are wanted to give utterance to the thought ; 
Its glance was radiant thought. Yet when her 

voice 
Breathed some old melody, or closed the day 
With her due hymn to the Virgin, I have turn'd 
Even from the glory of her eye, to weep 
Tears, painful from delight. I weep no more : 
My world is done — there shines — Rosolia's grave. 



JACOB'S DREAM 



FROM A PICTURE BY ALLS TON. 



The sun was sinking on the mountain zone 
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine ! 
And lovely from the desert rose the moon, 
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line. 
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine. 
Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare 
A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline 
Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air, 
The summit gam'd, he knelt, and breathed his 
evening prayer. 

II. 

He spread his cloak and slumber'd — darkness fell 

Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound 

Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell ; 

Clouds heavy with the tempest gather'd round ; 

Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ; 

Still deeper roH'd the darkness from on high, 

Gigantic volume upon volume wound. 

Above, a pillar shooting to the sky. 

Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly. 

III. 

Voices are heard — a choir of golden strings, 
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose ; 
Then chariot-wheels — the nearer rush of wings; 
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows. 
It thunders — the resplendent gates unclose ; 
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height, 
Rise fiery waving wings, and star crown'd brows. 
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, 
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light. 

IV. 

But, two beside the sleeping Pilgrim stand. 
Like cherub Kings, with lifted, mighty plume, 
Fix'd, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high com- 
mand : 
They tell the Patriarch of his glorious doom ; 



Father of countless myriads that shall come. 
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea. 
Bright as the stars of heaven from twihght's 

gloom. 
Till He is given whom Angels long to see. 
And Israel's splendid line is crown'd with Deity. 



ON THE RUINS OF MESOLONGHI. 

Gloeious spirits ! ye have past ; 
On the ground your blood is cast, 

Tower and bastion, all are won. 
Round the new Thermopylae 
Lies the gore, and lies the clay, 

To high heaven the soul is gone ! 

Flow my tears ! No, let no tear 
Stain the slumbers of that bier," 

Till the tear of blood shall come. 
None o'er you the turf must spread ; 
Naked lie, ye gallant dead. 

Naked, wait the hour of doom. 

Shame to Europe ! On her ear 
Night and day, and month and year, 

While arose your agony ; 
While before the Ottoman 
Christian blood in torrents ran. 

She could calmly see you die ! 

Shame to Europe ! when her hand 
Could have crush'd that ruffian band, 

Like the worm beneath her feet ! 
Let her now bemoan, bepraise, — 
Will it quench your rampart's blaze? 

Will it rend your winding sheet ? 

Gold and empire, mighty things ! 
What are ye when Time's wild wings 

Smite ye, as he rushes on ! 
Down go sceptre, sword, and bust ; 
Babylon is dust to dust, 

Rome is worthless, widow'd, lone! 

But, till Earth shall groan her last, 
Ne'er shall be this spot o'erpast. 

Eyes shall weep, and hearts shall swell ; 
Ay, and flame with freedom's flame. 
When is heard its fated name. 

Sublime, indelible. 

Down shall go your murderer's reign 
Like an universal stain ; 

Down the turban's head shall go. 
Come the stroke from Man or Heaven, 
Blood shall for your blood be given, 

Woe be measured for your woe ! 

Mesolonghi ; till the day 
Of the pillar'd earth's decay. 

Thou shalt be a holy shrine. 
Wreck'd and ruin'd as thou art, 
Consecrated to the heart, 

Glorv be to thee and thine ! 



760 



GEORGE CROLY 



REBELLION. 



— Eirt Ss./3\oavpoK) iieroynov 
Aeivt] Bptj ireirorriro, Kopvaaovo'a kKovuv avSpav. 

Hesiod. 



I. 

I HAD a vision : evening sat in gold 
Upon the bosom of a boundless plain, 
Cover'd with beauty ; — garden, field, and fold, 
Studding the billowy sweep of ripening grain, 
Like islands in the purple summer main. 
And temples of pure marble met the sun, 
That tinged their white shafts with a golden 

stain ; 
And sounds pf rustic joy, and labour done, 
Hallow' d the lovely hour, until her pomp was 

gone. 

II. 

The plain was hush'd in twihght, as a child 
Slumbers beneath its slow drawn canopy ; 
But sudden tramplings came, and voices wild 
And tossings of rude weapons caught the eye ; 
And on the hills, like meteors in the sky. 
Burst sanguine fires, and ever and anon 
To the clash'd spears the horn gave fierce reply ; 
And round their beacons trooping thousands 

shone, 
.Then sank, like evil things, and all was dark and 

lone. 



III. 

'Twas midnight; there was wrath in that wild 

heaven : 
Earth was sepulchral dark. At once a roar 
Peal'd round the mountain tops, like ocean driven 
Before the thunders on the eternal shore : 
Down rush'd, as if a sudden earthquake tore 
The bowels of the hills — a flood of fire : 
Like lava, mingled spears and torches pour, 
The plain is deluged, higher still and higher 
Swell blood and flame, till all is like one mighty 

pyre. 

IV. 
'Twas dawn, and still the black and bloody smoke 
RoU'd o'er the champaign like a vault of stone : 
But as the sun's slow wheels the barrier broke, 
He lit the image of a fearful one, 
Throned in the central massacre, alone — 
An iron diadem upon his brow, 
A naked lance beside him, that yet shone 
Purple and warm with gore, and crouching low. 
All men in one huge chain, alike the friend and foe. 

V. 
The land around him, in that sickly light, 
Show'd like th' upturning of a mighty grave ; 
Strewn with crush' d monuments, and remnants 

white 
Of man ; all loneliness, but when some slave 
With faint, fond hand the hurried burial gave 
Then died. The Despot sat upon his throne, 
Scofl[ing to see the stubborn traitors wave 
At his least breath. The good and brave were gone 
To exile or the tomb. Their country's life was 

done ! 



THE END. 



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